Divergence
by CarolROI
Summary: Divergence is a series of short stories in which a different path taken results in a different outcome to the 2004 movie. Each divergence is unique unto itself and not connected to the others.
1. Fallen

**Each of these short stories is about point in the 2004 POTO movie where a change could send the story in a new direction. So assume everything is just like the movie, up to the point where each story starts. Each story is then a "divergence" from the original movie.**

**Fallen**

_"Who was that shape in the shadows, whose is the face in the mask?" _

She awoke in a beautiful swan-shaped bed to the quiet notes of a music box. The sheets beneath her were the softest velvet, a deep crimson that contrasted with the black lacquer of the swan's feathers. Golden pinpricks of candlelight shone through the delicate filigree of the black lace curtains drawn around the bed.

She sat up, reaching for the tasseled silken pull to raise the curtains. She got out of bed slowly, her gaze taking in the rough stone walls, her bare toes sinking into the soft furs covering the floor. She ran a hand through her tangled curls, the sleeve of her dressing gown catching on the beading of her corset.

Music, low and haunting, called to her from the arched opening to the room. She walked through it slowly, seeing once again the mist-shrouded lake, the hundreds of candles, the boat. The music caressed her, the notes swirling around her, beckoning her. She turned her head toward the sound and the sight of her beautiful Angel filled her eyes. She called to him.

He turned toward her, his fingers pausing on the keyboard of the pipe organ. The expression on his face was one of shy wonder, as if he could not believe she was there. Returning his attention to his music, he began to play once again, just for her. The sound soaked into her pores, flowed through her veins, all of him becoming all of her.

Like Pandora to her box, she was drawn to him, the brightest treasure in the room. She laid her hand on his shoulder, feeling his heat through his clothes, feeling him shiver. She touched his bare cheek, stroking her fingers over his soft skin. His eyes closed and he tilted his face up toward her, caught in the same spell she was.

Gently, ever so gently, she lifted the mask.

Time stopped.

With a crash and a roar, it started again. She lay sprawled on the floor, the spell broken. Hand to his face, he howled in pain, cursing her. Tearing the cover from a mirror, he gave her a second glance at what lay beneath the mask before he clapped his hand to his face again. Storming away from her, he knocked over a tall candleholder with a clatter. He stopped at the edge of the lake, his back to her as the sound died away.

Tears filled her eyes as she sat up, the connection between them not completely severed. Fear wrapped icy fingers around her heart, but it was his fear, his pain she felt. He turned toward her, begging, pleading, yet at the same time reviling himself.

_"...loathsome gargoyle...monster...repulsive carcass...beast..."_

Each word was a shard of glass, cutting his soul, slashing deep into her heart.

Words exhausted, he finally sat on the stone steps an arm's length from her. Still covering his face with his hand, he kept his head down, his body rocking back and forth.

She gazed at him, tears running freely down her face. He stretched his left hand toward her, palm open in supplication. She stared at it, then at him. He ducked his face away from her, his uncovered eye downcast, as if he could not bear to see her reaction.

She looked at the mask she still held, then once again at his outstretched fingers. Carefully, tenderly, she laid her hand in his, closing her fingers around it. She felt his shock travel up her arm like a bolt of lightning.

His head came up slowly, a mixture of fear and curiosity in his eye. She moved across the small distance separating them, leaving the mask behind. A tear slid down his face. She felt him shaking, heard the harsh rattle of his breathing over the pounding of her heart.

Gently, she grasped the fingers covering the right side of his face. As caught up in her as she was in him, he did not resist as she pulled them away. He simply waited, trembling. She caressed his damaged cheek, leaning her forehead against his, breathing him in.

_"Christine..." _It was a plea, a prayer, a thanksgiving. He had been alone in the dark and she had lit a candle.

_"Angel..." _It was a declaration of friendship, of hope, of love. She had been wandering and he had called her home.

Arms around each other, they held on, both knowing they would never let go.


	2. Return To The Opera House

**Each of these short stories is about point in the 2004 POTO movie where a change could send the story in a new direction. So assume everything is just like the movie, up to the point where each story starts. Each story is then a "divergence" from the original movie.**

**Return to the Opera House**

_"Come, we must return. Those two fools who run my theater will be missing you,"_ Christine's Angel said as he extended his hand down toward her, the uncovered side of his face as devoid of emotion as the masked half. They were the last words he had spoken to her.

She huddled in the bottom of the gondola, wiping at the tears that refused to stop falling from her eyes. She was a horrid, wicked girl, and every moment of silence between them impressed that fact deeper into her soul. She hadn't known, of course she hadn't known, but that was no excuse for how she had hurt him. And she had hurt him, wounded him terribly. His howls of anguish still resonated in her mind.

She should apologize. It would be the right thing, the only thing she could do. And yet every time she opened her mouth to speak, when she even glanced up once or twice at his cold, hard, expressionless face, all her words seemed inadequate.

So she sat in the boat and let tears soak into her dressing gown where her head rested against her knees. She remembered the trip to his home the night before, the details sharp and clear now, when everything had been so soft and dreamlike then. They had sung together, their voices rising and blending, echoing across the vast lake. Christine had never heard anything, never felt anything like it. It as if she was a box, and he was the only key to the treasure inside her. He made her feel things, strange and wonderful things...beautiful things.

Oh, how she wished she could go back, to slap her wicked, evil hand as she had reached for his mask. She didn't know why she had done it, snatched the scrap of leather from his face. She had known it was wrong, though, known it as she had crept up on him, known it as she had laid her hand along his bare cheek. A silent sob shook her as she recalled the look on his face then. It had been so calm, so peaceful. Bliss, she realized, it had been bliss.

She glanced back over her shoulder at him. There was no trace of bliss in his features now. His lips were slightly parted, and she could hear him breathing heavily as he poled the boat through the water. His eyes were no longer the warm emerald of the night before, but a chilly turquoise that made her pull her dressing gown closer around herself.

Looking forward again, Christine could see the shore of the lake approaching. What would happen when they arrived? Would he just leave her there? Fear made her stomach clench. What would she do if he sent her away? She was a thoughtless, selfish child. Why would he want anything more to do with her?

The boat thumped against the little dock, jolting Christine from her thoughts. Leaping lightly onto the stone walkway, her Angel tied the gondola up then took Christine's hand to help her out of the boat. Without a word, he began to pull her toward the stairway.

"Angel, please..." she stammered. He turned his face toward her, and the anger and pain in his eyes shattered her heart. He was going to take her back and leave her. "Please," she begged, "Please, Angel. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please don't leave me!"

Her pleas had no effect on him. He simply dragged her up the stairs to the first landing. "No! No! I'm sorry! I won't do it again, I promise. Please, please, I promise to be good. Don't send me away. Don't leave me!"

He rounded on her then, his features contorted in a snarl. "That's enough, Christine!" he snapped.

She felt as if he had slapped her, so sharply did his words sting. Meekly, she followed him up the next few steps, but the closer they got to the opera house, the more panicked she became. Christine couldn't lose him; he was all she had. He was the only one who understood her; he knew all her secrets, her hopes and dreams.

How could it possibly matter to her what he looked like? He had been a voice from the shadows for as long as she had known him. She had thought him an angel, but she was not disappointed to discover he was simply a man. Being a man made him flesh and blood, made him someone she could hold, someone she could love. She would not let him send her away.

With that thought, Christine sat down in the middle of the stairway.

"Christine!" he growled.

Wiping her nose on her wrist, she looked up at him determinedly. "Please," she tried again, "please don't send me away. I'm sorry I hurt you. If I could go back and change things I would. I would tell you you have no reason to be afraid of me. I would tell you how much I've longed for you, how much I need you, need your friendship. I would tell you your appearance could never change the way I feel, change how much I care for you."

His gaze softened, and he knelt beside her. "Christine..."

"Please don't send me away," she cried, her tear-filled eyes meeting his. "I could not bear it if I could never see you again, never hear your voice, never know your love for me." He looked quite startled at her mention of love, but the grip he had on her hand gentled.

Christine raised her right hand to stroke his cheek and was filled with horror when he flinched away from her touch. "I'm sorry," she choked out. "I won't hurt you, I swear. It doesn't matter to me. I just...I just need you..."

His gaze searched her face, looking for any sign of deceit then he reached out to her, brushing away the tears on her cheek. He took a ragged breath then whispered, "I won't leave you, Christine, I promise."

With a little cry, she flung herself at him, wrapping her arms about his neck and burying her face in the soft fabric of his shirt. A moment later she felt his arms around her waist as he pulled her closer. "I won't leave you," he breathed into her hair. "Not ever."


	3. No Prima Donna

**Each of these short stories is about point in the 2004 POTO movie where a change could send the story in a new direction. So assume everything is just like the movie, up to the point where each story starts. Each story is then a "divergence" from the original movie.**

**Here is the third of my little "divergences". I shall have a total of about ten when I'm done, plus a final one to tie the rest together. Thank you to every one who has reviewed and added me to your alerts lists!**

**Carol**

**No Prima Donna**

_"...I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in box five, which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, O. G."_

Christine looked up from the note at her friend Meg, who sat next to her on her bed in the ballet dorm. "Where did you get this?"

"Maman. The Phantom gave it to her to give to the managers." She pursed her lips and shook her head. "They've already seen it. They think it's a joke. Carlotta is going on as the countess. You're to be the pageboy."

Christine ran a hand over her face. After everything that had happened to her in the previous twenty-four hours, she had no desire to play the pageboy, let alone the countess in Il Muto. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry herself to sleep, though every time she closed her eyes all she could see was the anguish on her Angel's face at her betrayal. "_A disaster beyond your imagination_...what do you think he means, Meg?"

The blonde ballerina hugged herself. "I don't know, but I'm scared, Christine. He could have killed Carlotta with that backdrop yesterday. He could have killed you last night!"

The corner of Christine's mouth twitched. "No," she replied quietly, "he would never hurt me. All he wants is for me to sing." She thought about the things he had said down in the cellars, the things he had shown her. The exquisite little figure of her on the model of the stage, the drawings and paintings, the wedding dress..._fear can turn to love_... Oh. Oh! She was such a dunce! _He loves me_...

"He what!" Meg squeaked, and Christine realized she must have said that last bit out loud.

She clapped a hand over her traitorous mouth and blinked back tears. "I am an idiot," she finally said. "How could I not see?"

"Christine, you're not making any sense," Meg replied, just as her mother entered the ballet dormitory.

"Come, girls, it's time to start getting ready for tonight's performance," Madame Giry said. She held Christine back a moment, letting Meg go ahead of them down the stairs. "How are you feeling, Christine? If you don't feel you can do this, someone else can go on for you."

Christine shook her head. "No, no, I'm fine. I just--" She bit her lip. "Can you get a message to him, Madame, before the performance? I need to see him."

Madame Giry seemed to think that over, then said, "I don't believe that is wise."

Grabbing hold of her arm, Christine pleaded with the ballet mistress. "Please, Madame Giry. Meg showed me the note. I'm afraid he'll do something to Carlotta in order for me to sing in her place again. I must speak with him."

The older woman sighed then nodded. "I will try, my dear. You go get into costume and I will look for him. Where do you want him to meet you?"

"The chapel," she replied without hesitation. "Have him meet me in the chapel."

Christine got into her costume and makeup in record time. As she headed downstairs, she heard footsteps coming toward her from the chapel. Quickly she ducked into a side passage and pressed herself against the wall. Raoul strode past, muttering to himself, but he did not look down the other hallway and see her.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she counted to ten then continued to her destination. Once safely inside the chapel, she shut and locked the door. Kneeling, she lit a candle for her father and said a silent prayer. She was just starting a prayer for her Angel when she heard the squeak of a hinge behind her.

Jumping to her feet, Christine whirled around to find her Angel standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, the masked side of his face toward her. "You wished to see me, mam'selle?"

The icy tone of his voice made her shiver and she had the fleeting thought that perhaps this wasn't a good idea. Still, he had respected her request and come. Now that he was here, Christine didn't know where to begin. Her apologies would probably be a good start. "Angel," she began then stopped as her voice broke on that single word.

It got his attention, though, and he turned so that she could see both sides of his face. He looked older somehow than he had the night before, his eyes bloodshot and watery, a shadow of beard stubble darkening his jaw. He had probably gotten as little sleep as she had. "I locked the door," she told him. "No one will find us here."

The set of his shoulders seemed to relax a little, but if she hadn't been staring so intently at him, she never would have noticed. Swallowing nervously, she started again. "Angel, about what happened last night, about what I did, I'm sorry." Her eyes began to burn with tears, but she kept on. "I know I hurt you. Please believe me that was never my intention." She took a small step toward him, peering up in to his face. "I would never deliberately hurt you. It would be like running a knife into my own heart."

His eyes widened slightly and an explosive breath of air escaped his nostrils, but he said nothing.

Christine ran her tongue over her suddenly dry lips then plunged on. "I know you love me. I've known all along that my Angel of Music loved me, I never doubted it. I just couldn't see it last night when it was right in front of me. I see it now, though." Reaching up very slowly, she rested her hand on his chest, over his heart. "I can feel it."

"Christine..." It was almost a moan. She slid her arm around his waist, underneath his cloak, and stepped into him, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. She felt him trembling against her, and she asked nothing more of him, but neither did she release him from her light embrace. After what seemed like an eternity, he tilted his head slightly, his chin coming to rest against her hair. She wanted to stand there forever, feeling his heartbeat under her fingertips as she inhaled the mixture of smoke, wool, spice and musk that made up his scent.

The need to see his face, to look into his eyes was too strong, and Christine moved back just enough to gaze up at him. His eyes seemed to glow in the candlelight and the trace of a smile played across his lips. His gloved fingers gently stroked her cheek then lifted her chin slightly as he bent toward her. He was going to kiss her, Christine realized. Her Angel was going to kiss her! She had just closed her eyes in anticipation when someone pounded on the chapel door. They both jumped.

"Christine! Ten minutes before curtain!" Meg's voice yelled.

"Coming!" Christine answered, then turned back to her Angel. "I'm sorry. I don't have much time but--"

"Be ready," he interrupted her. "La Carlotta is going to be indisposed, and you will be taking her place as the countess. I must go." He started toward the brass gate set into the wall.

The bold, confidant handwriting of the note swam before Christine's eyes. She grabbed his sleeve. "No," she said, her voice suddenly loud in the tiny room.

He looked back at her, his left eyebrow raising. "No? You do not wish to sing?" he hissed, and she realized she was treading dangerous ground.

She took a breath. "Yes, I want to sing, but not like this."

Her gentle Angel disappeared and her stern Maestro glared down at her. "What do you mean 'not like this'?"

Her mind whirled. How could she make him understand? Then she recalled one of her first singing lessons. "Remember when you were teaching me to sing, and I didn't want to do my exercises, I wanted to start right off with a song? You told me that I had to earn the right to sing an aria, that it wouldn't mean as much to me if I hadn't worked for it." Her grip tightened on his arm. "It's the same thing, Angel. I know you think it should be me up there in the limelight tonight instead of Carlotta, but I have to earn it. I have to put in the work, not just have it handed to me. Otherwise, it means nothing."

She had given her speech to the first button of his waistcoat, but now she raised her gaze to his. There was a scowl on his face, but Christine could tell there was no anger in it. He let out a long sigh. "You're right, Christine. But still--the very idea of that woman's screeching makes my teeth ache!"

Smiling at him, Christine slipped her arms around his waist and gave him a hug. "Thank you for understanding," she told him.

She felt his arms wrap about her and his cheek press against the top of her head. "Yes, well, that doesn't solve my problems with the new managers," he replied in a grumpy tone that made Christine giggle.

Giving him another squeeze, she stepped back. "I know it doesn't, but surely you can think of a more productive solution than dropping scenery on someone's head." She could hear Meg yelling for her again. "I have to go, Angel, I'm sorry."

He waved a hand toward the door, lost in thought. "Yes, yes, go show those cretins that you don't need to sing a note to outshine that old toad."

"You'll be watching, won't you?"

His attention focused on her again. "Of course I will," he answered gently. "From the flies if they've rented my box again, but I shall not miss a moment."

Christine paused, her hand on the door. "No disasters beyond my imagination?"

His eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened at her reference to his note. Then he seemed to notice the worry in her eyes and she saw quite clearly that he realized her fear was for him. Two long strides and he was at her side, sweeping her into his embrace. "No disasters, Christine, I promise."

She smiled up at him and he brushed his lips against hers in the softest of kisses. Hugging him tightly, Christine whispered, "I love you." Then she was out the chapel door and racing up the stairs to the music of the overture to _Il Muto._


	4. A Kiss From A Rose Part 1

Each of these short stories is about point in the 2004 POTO movie where a change could send the story in a new direction. So assume everything is just like the movie, up to the point where each story starts. Each story is then a "divergence" from the original movie.

This divergence was probably the hardest to write, simply because both Erik and Christine have done their worst to each other. His violence drove her into another man's arms and her betrayal so devastated him he disappeared for three months.This one will be longer, thus the multiple parts. Let me know what you think!

**A Kiss From A Rose Part 1**

_"Order your fine horses, be with them at the door..." _

"And soon you'll be beside me..."

"You'll guard me and you'll guide me..."

Christine entered the opera house from the roof first, the end of her cape over her arm. Raoul closed the door then started for the spiral staircase that led down to the stage level of the theater. When he realized Christine was not behind him, he paused and looked up at her. "Christine? Are you coming?"

She hesitated at the top of the steps, staring at her empty hands. The rose! She had left the rose her Angel had sent her on the rooftop. "I…You go ahead and tell them I'm on my way. There's something I need to do." His brow furrowed as he frowned. "I'll only be a minute, I promise."

Nodding, he resumed his descent.

Christine paused at the door to the roof, her hand on the knob. She should just forget about the rose, forget about everything, her Angel, Joseph Buquet, Carlotta, everything. She turned away, but something drew her back to the door.

She could not bear to leave the rose out there in the snow. It felt too much like she was abandoning her Angel.

Pulling open the door, Christine stepped out onto the stoop. The sound of a voice stopped her as she started down the stairs, its anguished tones cutting through her like knives.

_"I gave you my music, made your song take wing. Now, how you've repaid me, denied me and betrayed me…"_

Oh God. It was her Angel--and he knew. He must have been on the rooftop with them the whole time, hiding as she had tried to explain the events of the previous night to Raoul. She had been so upset by everything that had happened, onstage and off, that she had reached out to Raoul's calm strength without considering the consequences. Her Angel had to have seen them kiss. What had she done?

_"He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing…Christine…."_

She found herself moving toward the dark, bowed figure kneeling in the snow, watching as he crushed the rose to his lips. The faint sound of sobbing reached her ears, and Christine fought desperately against her urge to flee, to hid from the stark evidence of what she had done.

Tears filled her eyes and she wished she were dead. Nothing she could do, nothing she could say would ever take away the pain she had inflicted upon her Angel. Better a hole should open beneath her feet and swallow her, ensuring that she could never harm anyone again.

Yet Christine could not leave him. Moving quietly to his side, she knelt next to her Angel. His eyes were closed, the skin around them looking drawn and almost bruised, his dark lashes wet. He must have sensed her presence, for his eyes opened slowly. He peered up at her, the beautiful green of his irises nearly eclipsed by the damp black of his pupils.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I never meant…I…I would never…" Her tears spilled over, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. The rose fell from his grip as he started to reach out to her, but Christine shook her head, and his hand stopped halfway to her, his fingers curling in toward his palm.

Swallowing hard, Christine began again. "I know that nothing I say can erase what I've done. I won' t even attempt to give you an excuse, save that I am not worthy of you." She paused, willing him to say something while praying for his silence.

He simply looked at her, his eyes two dark pools of hurt. Christine shivered under his unwavering gaze, but she refused to look away. This was her doing and she should accept responsibility for it. Taking a shuddering breath, she said, "I know you can never forgive me; I don't deserve to be forgiven. But if...if you can somehow choose to forget, if we both agree to forget everything that's happened since last night...I...I will wait for you, in my dressing room, after the performance."

The sound of the church bells tolling the hour made Christine realize they would come looking for her any moment. "I have to go, Angel," she whispered. She stood up slowly, feeling his gaze stay with her. "I'll be waiting." Moving toward the stairs, she paused at his side. "If...if you decide not to come, I will know I only have myself to blame." She brushed her fingers against his shoulder as she left, her touch so light she was certain he did not feel it.

If Christine had looked back, she would have seen her Angel get to his feet and turn to watch her leave, his gloved hand over the spot her fingers had touched, the left side of his face as expressionless as his mask.

* * *

To Be Continued 


	5. A Kiss From A Rose Part 2

**Here is part two of "Kiss". I will post the last part of it tomorrow. **

**A Kiss From A Rose Part 2**

Christine shooed everyone out of her dressing room after the performance, even Raoul and Madame Giry, locking the door behind them. They had both fussed over her when she had claimed exhaustion, but she had promised to rest and they had gone, though somewhat reluctantly. She sat in front of the mirror at her dressing table, removing her stage makeup. Her claim of being tired wasn't so far from the truth, judging by the dark circles under her eyes.

Sighing, she patted on concealer and went to choose a frock from the several hanging behind the changing screen in the corner of the room. She decided on a plain black dress with a sheer black lace insert around the scooped neckline. Her hair was rather the worse for wear after being stuffed under the countess' wig for two hours so she pulled it back in a simple tail and tied it with a ribbon.

Walking over to the huge mirror at the far end of the room, Christine inspected her reflection, smoothing the silky fabric of the dress, trying to make it fit better over her bosom. For not the first time in her life, she wished for just half the chest Mother Nature had endowed Meg with. There was nothing to be done for it, however, and primping for her Angel made her feel strangely self-conscious but she pinched her pale cheeks to give them some color all the same.

Christine sat down on the chaise with her back straight and her hands folded demurely in her lap and waited. For the first hour, she convinced herself that he was just giving her time to change and get ready for his visit. The second hour she believed that he had misunderstood her up on the roof, and that he was waiting for her in the cellars. She broke two fingernails in her attempt to find the mechanism that would open the magic mirror.

Finally she curled up on the chaise, a pillow clutched to her chest, and let the tears fall. Her Angel wasn't coming. And as she had told him, she had no one to blame but herself.

It was her fault Joseph Buquet was dead; his blood was on her hands as well as her Angel's. Her guilt had sent her running to the roof and the illusory safety of Raoul's arms. And an illusion it had been, lasting all of the thirty seconds from the moment they left the roof together until she returned to find she had destroyed her Angel.

She would most certainly rot in hell for the things she had done--and for the things she hadn't. Christine had known what her Angel would do to the stagehand once he cornered him. She had known, and she had not stopped him. Even now the only regret she felt was for what it had done to the two of them. She had not an ounce of remorse for Buquet.

Christine was damned. She had been from the moment she had gone looking for a quiet place to collect her thoughts before the start of _Il Muto_.

* * *

Winding her way through the maze backstage, Christine headed for the chapel. She just needed a moment to herself to run through tonight's performance in her mind and to find some kind of internal calm after the whirlwind of the past day. Already dressed in the tight blue trousers and striped vest of Serafimo, she slipped easily through the crush of performers in various states of attire. As she reached the hallway that led to the chapel, she caught a glimpse of Raoul as he started down the stairs, obviously intent on reaching the chapel as well.

She knew he was looking for her; Meg had told her the Vicomte had asked about her when she had seen him with the managers. Christine knew she was not up to facing him at the moment. He would want answers about where she had been last night, and Christine was not ready to share the beauty and the tragedy of her time with her Angel with anyone.

Turning away from the chapel, she walked toward the stage. There was a little cubbyhole she knew of at the back, where some of the flats were stored. Ducking behind one of the large hanging backdrops, she entered her hide-away. Much to her dismay, it was already occupied.

Joseph Buquet set down the bottle he had been drinking from and wiped a dirty hand over his mouth. "Well, well, what do we have here? A pretty little puss come looking for old Joseph, have you?"

Christine took a step back but she wasn't quick enough. His hand darted out, his fingers closing around her wrist in a crushing grip. She opened her mouth to scream, but his other hand clamped across it as he pushed her up against the wall. "Sweet little Christine, isn't it?" He let go of her wrist, his hand moving to stroke over the crotch of her trousers.

Her heart pounding in terror, Christine grabbed at his hands, clawing at them, but the leather bracers he wore kept her from doing any damage, and she wasn't strong enough to move them. "Everyone's all talking about you today, saying you bedded our new patron. I know whose bed you were truly in last night." He leaned in close to her ear to whisper, "I saw him bring you back, pussy. I know it was the Phantom you were keeping warm." He gave her ear a sloppy lick, and she shuddered.

Buquet ground his hand harder against her private places and Christine whimpered behind his fingers, tears leaking from her eyes. He ran his tongue along her neck, then said, "The Phantom and I are _amis_, little one. We are like this," he let go of her trouser front long enough to show her his crossed fingers. "We share everything."

She closed her eyes, swallowing the bile she could taste at the back of her throat. He was lying. She knew that with every fiber of her being. Her Angel had been a gentleman; he would never, ever touch her the way this filth was pawing her. He would never let him lay his hands on her. _Please, God, please send my Angel to me now._

She opened her eyes just as Buquet kicked her feet out from under her. Christine fell to her knees; he grabbed her hair roughly to keep her from dropping to all fours. She stared up into his face as he yanked her head back, the wild look in his eyes terrifying her. She couldn't even draw breath deep enough to scream, though her mouth was now uncovered.

In fascinated horror she watched him fumble with the front of his trousers. He reached inside and pulled out something that resembled a small, floppy, pink sausage. "Give little Joe a kiss, puss," he commanded, waving the thing at her. The hand in her hair pushed her forward and she squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn't block out the smell of old sweat, cheap wine and stale urine that assailed her nostrils.

Christine threw up--all over Buquet. "God damn bitch! Look what you've done!" He cuffed her alongside the head and she doubled over, still gagging. When she looked up, he was gone.

A soft thump sounded off to the side of her. Christine scrambled back further into the corner, trying to make herself invisible.

"Christine..." It was a low, musical whisper. Her Angel! Christine opened her eyes to see him kneeling in front of her, his eyes glittering behind his mask. "Christine, I'm sorry. I saw what he was doing but I was too high up. It took me too long to get to you. Are you hurt?"

Flinging her arms around his neck, Christine clung to him, sobbing silently into the soft silk of his cravat. She felt his arms go around her, and he pulled her close to him, sheltering her in the dark folds of his cloak. "Shh, shh, _mon ange._ You're safe now. I won't let him hurt you any more. I will not let him hurt anyone ever again."

When her trembling finally eased, and she could draw an even breath, Christine loosened her hold enough so she could look up at her Angel. "Better now?" he asked. She nodded, and he lifted her to her feet. "Come, you need to rest. We'll go to my home; you'll be safe there."

The sound of the orchestra tuning up reached her ears. "I can't, " she said with a shake of her head. "I have to go on." He frowned and she could plainly see his concern for her. "I'll be all right. I don't have to sing."

His gloved hands rubbed gently up and down her arms. "Are you certain?" She nodded. "Very well then." He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the tearstains from her face, then helped her fix her ponytail. Again, he asked if she felt sure she could perform.

Taking a deep breath, Christine replied, "Yes, I'll be fine." As he turned to leave, she asked, "Where are you going?"

He looked back at her, his expression hard, his eyes almost glowing. "Above. I have a long overdue meeting with Joseph Buquet."

A tendril of fear shot through Christine and she caught hold of his sleeve. "What are you going to do?" she whispered, knowing she did not want to hear the answer.

His fingertips traced over her cheek where the stagehand had struck her, the leather of his glove cool against the heat of her skin. "I'm going to kill him," he answered softly. The look in his eyes told her nothing she could say would sway him from his self-appointed duty and, somewhere deep inside, a small part of her didn't want to.

Swallowing, Christine gave him a brief, tight hug then stepped back. Her Angel cupped her face between his hands again and tenderly kissed her forehead. Letting go of her, he grabbed hold of one of the many ropes hanging from the flies and scrambled up it, disappearing into the shadows.

* * *

To Be Continued... 


	6. A Kiss From A Rose Part 3

**Each of these short stories is about point in the 2004 POTO movie where a change could send the story in a new direction. So assume everything is just like the movie, up to the point where each story starts. Each story is then a "divergence" from the original movie.**

**Here's the final part to "Kiss From A Rose". Enjoy! And if you reallyenjoyed it, you can click on that little button at the bottom of the page labeled "Review" and tell me the moments you liked best!**

Carol

**A Kiss From A Rose Part 3**

Something soft and silky brushed against her face as the scent of roses drew Christine from slumber. She opened her eyes to find her Angel leaning over her, touching the poor bedraggled rose he had given her and she had abandoned to her lips. _A kiss from a rose..._. "You came," she whispered, her voice rough from sleep and too many tears.

He took a step back as she sat up, kneeling on the carpet so that they were eye to eye. She wiped at the stickiness on her face, taking in his appearance as she did so. He looked how she felt, his eyes puffy and red and his complexion pale and blotchy. She ached to imagine him pacing back and forth in the tunnels, perhaps just the other side of the mirror, shedding tears over the pain she had caused him.

"I'm sorry, my Angel," Christine began, but he held up a gloved hand to silence her. Biting her lip, she bowed her head. She would endure whatever punishment he desired.

He let out a long sigh, but did not speak. She watched his hands where they rested on his thighs, his fingers clenching and releasing, his gloves shiny where the leather grew tight over his knuckles. Finally, he said, "I have tried to do as you asked, Christine. I have spent hours roaming these halls, trying to forget, but I cannot." His voice broke then, and she dared to look up at him. His lips trembled and he pressed them together tightly in an attempt to control his emotions.

"I cannot forget, and I do not know how to forgive. So, please, Christine, make me understand. Why would you do such things to me? Only three days ago you told me you loved me."

Christine pressed her hands to her heart, recalling her last words to him the night before the premiere of Hannibal. He had given her her lesson in the chapel as always, his final words to her "Sweet dreams, Christine." She had responded as she had for so many years now. "Goodnight, my Angel. I love you."

She felt a flush of shame burning her cheeks.

"I believed you," he continued, his voice low and weary. "I am the same as I was that night, Christine, the same as I have ever been. All that has changed is you know now that I am not an angel...and you have seen my face."

Tears spilled down Christine's face unbidden as she gazed at her Angel. He seemed so very tired, as if the pain she was causing him had taken his last ounce of strength from him. "Nothing has changed, Angel," she dared to say at last. "Your appearance makes no difference to me. I love you as I always have."

"Liar!" he roared, shooting up from his hunched position, his gaze boring into her. "I saw your fear, your revulsion when you took my mask!"

Christine resisted the instinct to shrink away from his anger. She had to stand up to him now, she had to make him see. "Yes, I was afraid!" It came out louder than she had intended and he rocked back as though she had physically struck him. His hands came up to cover his face as if his mask was not enough to shield her from his terrible visage. She spoke again, keeping her tone soft and gentle. "Afraid of your anger, not your face." She grasped his fingers and tugged his hands from his face. "I love you."

He blinked back tears and turned his head away from her. "Then why...why did you go with him tonight? Why did you say such cruel things about me?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

Christine tightened her grip on his hands, afraid if she let go that he would flee from her, and she was struck by the utter wrongness of it, that her strong, capable Angel was afraid of her. She had never held that kind of power over anyone in her life, and she hated it, hated that a careless word or action from her could cut him to the quick.

She did not answer him right away, needing to collect her thoughts, to put into words all the things she had thought about while she had waited for him. "I was frightened when I went up to the roof."

He nearly crushed her fingers as he growled, "Of me?"

"Yes," she said so softly that she wasn't certain he heard her. Pulling free of her grasp, he leapt to his feet, pacing the dressing room furiously. "You killed him. When you told me you were going to do it, I didn't want to believe you."

He rounded on her, pounding his fist on the back of the chaise, making her jump. "What did you think I was going to do, Christine? He nearly raped you!"

She crossed her arms over her chest hugging herself. "I know that's what you intended and no matter how much I wish to deny it a part of me wanted you to do it," she replied in a low voice. "I am as guilty as you are."

"And that sent you running straight for the boy?" he said with a sneer.

"Yes. I wanted someone to confess to. I couldn't carry our secret any longer. I told him you were a murderer, I told him about your face...and how despite those things, I was still drawn to you."

He walked around the chaise to kneel once more in front of her, his eyes flashing behind his mask.

"Raoul told me it was all a dream, that you didn't exist. Somehow I thought that if I tried hard enough, I could come to believe that too. He would protect me, take me away from here. He would never know what a wretched person I am for wanting a man to die."

"Christine--"

She shook her head and he fell silent. "I thought with Raoul I could pretend tonight never happened. But it was an illusion, a trick I played on myself because I didn't want to see the truth. I knew the moment I walked back onto the roof that everything was real."

Raising her hand to his face, she brushed her thumb across the trail of tears streaming down his cheek. "I saw how much I had hurt you. You, who were always there for me from the moment you found me crying so long ago in the chapel. You, who have loved me for so many years...I should have listened to you before the performance, I should have gone with you. Then none of this ever would have happened. " She leaned her forehead against his, feeling his hands moving to rest on her shoulders. "I am so sorry, so very sorry."

His arms slid down around her back and he pulled her to him, once again sheltering her with his body. Christine leaned into his embrace, one hand going to the back of his neck, the other slipping around his waist underneath his cloak. "Can you still love me?"

She felt a long, hard shudder go through him. For a moment, he buried his face in the curve of her neck, his tears hot against her chilled skin. "I shouldn't," he whispered. "I should leave and forget you."

Christine's heart was breaking as he sat back, releasing her. He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes full of despair. "All I have ever known is pain, Christine. I do not know why I ever expected any different from you," he said, his voice resigned.

"I understand," she finally replied quietly. "It is no one's fault but my own that I have destroyed us before we even truly began. But I do not want you to think what we had was all a dream. I did love my Angel of Music." She reached across the chasm between them, and clasped her fingers around his. "And I do love you. I will miss you every day until..." She couldn't complete the sentence. The thought of never seeing him again, never hearing his voice, was too painful. "If you ever...if you ever change your mind, I will be here." Giving his fingers a squeeze, she let go of him, trying in vain to hold back the tears.

He got to his feet with an effort, staring down at her for several heartbeats before he turned toward the mirror. He touched the fingertips of his left hand lightly to the unfeeling glass and bowed his head, his other hand balled into a fist. She watched the jerky rise and fall of his shoulders beneath his cape, his heavy breathing echoing in the silence.

Slowly his hand unclenched and he turned toward her, fire burning in his eyes. Christine rose from the chaise uncertainly. One long stride and he was in front of her, his hands coming up as if he wished to touch her but dared not. "God, help me, for I surely cannot help myself," he rasped. "I should go back to my cellars, forget you, forget this ridiculous notion I had to ever reveal myself to you." His hands hovered over her throat, then dropped to his sides. "But I cannot. I love you too much, Christine. I cannot bear to be without you, though I fear my decision to stay will only lead to my ruin in the end."

It took a moment for his words to sink in then Christine slid her arms about his waist and hugged him tightly. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you." Hesitantly, he returned her embrace, and as he bowed his head to touch his cheek to hers, she felt the warmth of their mingled tears.

After several minutes, she stepped back, wiping her face with her hand, her tears having turned to ones of joy. A smile tugging at her lips, Christine reached into his coat pocket and found his handkerchief. Gently, she blotted the wetness on his left cheek and, without thinking, she reached for his mask.

Quick as a snake, his fingers closed around her wrist. "What do you think you're doing?" he spat.

"I--I--I only thought to dry your other cheek. I would think it very uncomfortable, your mask trapping the dampness..." she stammered. He loosened his grip on her hand but did not let go, his eyes closing as he tilted his head back with a sigh. After a long moment in which Christine dared not to breathe lest she somehow injure her Angel again, he met her gaze, the emotion in his dark green eyes unreadable.

Raising their joined hands to his mask, he helped her remove it, then closed his eyes as if he were afraid to see her reaction. Taking a deep breath, Christine brushed the silk handkerchief lightly over his red, damaged skin, wiping away tears and sweat. He shivered beneath her touch, but did not push her away.

Emboldened by this small victory, Christine laid her hand carefully along the right side of his face, then leaned up to press her lips tenderly against his brow. He let out a cry like a frightened animal and clutched at her, his hands fisting in the fabric of her dress, his eyes squeezed shut. Christine drew him to her, enfolding him in her embrace. "Shh, shh, _mon ange,_ I am here," she whispered. "I will always be here."

When he had composed himself, he drew away enough to look at her. There was a light in his eyes Christine had never seen before. It took her a moment to realize it was hope.

He swallowed audibly then tugged the glove from his right hand. He touched his bare hand to her cheek and she turned into the caress, nuzzling his palm. He tilted his head down and she met him halfway, their lips colliding in a fumbling kiss. Pulling back for a moment, his brow creased in a frown. Then he brought his left hand up to cup her other cheek as his mouth descended on hers again, his kiss warm and sure this time. A fire ignited inside Christine, traveling swiftly through her veins until every part of her was tingling with a new and wonderful sensation.

When they finally broke apart, she leaned her head against his chest, breathing hard. He wrapped his arms around her protectively, his chin resting in her curls. She could feel the pounding of his heart beneath her cheek, and she rubbed her fingers over his chest, listening to his quiet sigh.

At last he released her. She straightened her dress self-consciously then asked, "What now, my Angel?"

"Erik. My name is Erik." He touched a spot on the edge of the gilded mirror and it sprang open. Holding out his hand to her, he asked, "Come with me?"

Picking up the red rose from where it had fallen to the floor, Christine laid her hand in his and followed him into the darkness.

* * *

Next up is **Love And Death**, another three part story. Wonder if you can guess what it is about? 


	7. Love And Death Part 1

**Each of these short stories is about point in the 2004 POTO movie where a change could send the story in a new direction. So assume everything is just like the movie, up to the point where each story starts. Each story is then a "divergence" from the original movie.**

**This is another three part story, a rather steamy one. Enjoy! I will post part two tomorrow.**

**Love and Death Part 1**

_"...As for our star, Miss Christine Daaé, no doubt she'll do her best. It's true, her voice is good, she knows though, should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn, if pride would let her return to me, her teacher...her teacher..."_

The emotion blazing in those deep-set emerald eyes behind the sharp planes of the skull mask softened then, going from the cold menace with which he had stared down the managers and Carlotta to a tenderness that Christine could almost feel caressing her. Joy bubbled in her chest. He still cared; he hadn't forgotten her, hadn't abandoned her as she had feared in the long weeks without him.

It was all she could do to keep from racing up the stairs and into his arms. Then he was descending toward her, mouth slightly open and lips trembling as he breathed heavily, all his attention on her. Her feet moved of their own accord, carrying her up the staircase to meet him.

He stopped one stair above her, his eyes telling her more than words ever could. He was overjoyed to see her, they said, he had missed her, and wondered if she had missed him, too. His gaze dropped lower than her face for a brief second. When he looked back up, she gasped at the anger and pain that turned his irises nearly black.

His gloved fingers brushed over the bare skin of her chest, and Christine thought she would burst into flames at that slight touch. Her desire turned to confusion as pain flared at the nape of her neck, the Phantom ripping the gold chain holding Raoul's ring from her throat. Shaking his fist in her face, his teeth bared in a snarl, he hissed _"Your chains are still mine; you belong to me!" _

Wide-eyed in shock, she watched him leap up the stairs to the landing. He whirled to face her once more, flinging the end of his cape over his arm. A blinding flash of light, a billow of smoke and the Phantom dropped through the trapdoor that opened beneath his feet to the shouts and gasps of the frightened party-goers.

No! He was not going to leave her again! Without hesitation, Christine raced up the stairs and jumped after him. The door closed as she fell and she plunged through darkness, only her training kept her fear from overwhelming her. All players at the opera house knew how to fall through a trap, and Christine landed on her feet, her knees bent to absorb the shock. The myriad of petticoats and hoops she wore under her huge skirt were a hindrance, though, and she pitched forward onto her hands in an ungraceful sprawl.

Light flared in the blackness and Christine rose, her palms stinging from their impact on the stone floor, but otherwise she was uninjured. She found she was surrounded by her own reflection multiplied many times over. "A hall of mirrors," she murmured, remembering the story about the carnival that she had pried out of Madame Giry when her Angel had disappeared after the disastrous performance of _Il Muto_.

At first she thought he had been angry with her for allowing Buquet to trap her, to put his hands on her. Then she told herself that the reason he had not come to her was because he was frightened of what he had done. He had killed a man for her and she knew it must weigh as heavily on his heart as it did on hers. But when two weeks had passed with no sign of him, Christine became frightened that he was ill or injured. She had gone to the only person she knew beside herself who had ever had contact with him, Cecilié Giry.

She had wanted the ballet mistress to take her to his home in the cellars, but the older woman had refused, saying it was far too dangerous for them to be wandering his domain without his guidance. Then she had explained about the traps designed to dissuade visitors, and when Christine begged for more about her Angel, Cecilié had told her of his time with the gypsies. Nightmares had plagued her for days afterwards, horrible dreams of a young Angel being abused and tortured.

Shaking off the memories, Christine spun around slowly, gazing at her reflections. Was this one of his traps? There had to be a way out, obviously, but where? Suddenly he appeared in the mirror with her, standing behind her, his eyes gleaming brightly in the dark hollows of the skull mask. She turned quickly, but discovered he was not in the round room with her, but only in the glass. "Angel?" she called softly.

No answer, save for his gaze burning into her from every direction. Christine closed her eyes against the sting of tears. What had she done? Why was he so angry with her? It was he who had ignored her the past months; she had spent every night until curfew in the chapel waiting for him. Anger flared in her breast. "Erik!" she yelled.

His gasp of surprise came from behind her and to the left. Eyes still closed, she whirled toward the sound, hand outstretched. Only when her fingers closed on the velvet of his sleeve did she open her eyes.

He stared down at her, his eyes cold and dark, all the love and warmth she had thought she'd seen earlier gone. "Clever girl," he growled. "Is this what you came for?" He raised his fist between them, the chain with the ring dangling from his fingers. "Your Vicomte's expensive little gift?"

Christine snatched the necklace from him and flung it away into the darkness. Opening her mouth to snap at him, to berate him for the hell he had put her through, she was stopped by the complete and utter shock in his eyes. In that instant, she realized he had stayed way for so long because he thought she didn't love him.

She would have to do something about that. Grasping him by his lapels, Christine raised up on her toes and gently touched her lips to his. For several moments he remained stiff and unyielding, in anger or in disbelief, Christine didn't know, but she deepened the kiss, her arms winding around his neck. "Please," she whispered against his lips, "oh, please..."

She felt something crack in him then, and his arms went around her waist, pulling her tightly against him. He was the one to finally break the kiss, breathing her name as he took her face in his hands. There was wonder in his eyes and love. No one had ever looked at her like that before, like she was everything good and beautiful about the world. She hoped he could see the same emotion in her eyes. "Erik," she whispered, "Erik, I--"

Shouts and the sound of fists beating against wood interrupted her. He closed his eyes for a second then kissed her forehead. "I must go, Christine." He released her, reaching behind him with one hand and pressing on the corner of one of the mirrors. It sprang open at his touch, a dim hallway now visible behind it. He stepped through the narrow doorway and disappeared into the gloom.

Christine glanced toward the source of the commotion, hearing Raoul's voice exhorting someone to get an ax. The mirror door was slowly swinging shut. Christine pushed it open again and went through, closing it securely behind her. "Erik," she called, "Angel, wait!" Gathering up her skirts, she ran after him.

* * *

To be Continued 


	8. Love And Death Part 2

**Each of these short stories is about point in the 2004 POTO movie where a change could send the story in a new direction. So assume everything is just like the movie, up to the point where each story starts. Each story is then a "divergence" from the original movie.**

**Love And Death Part 2**

It didn't take Christine long to realize the dress had to go. The hoops and layers of petticoats simply made her too wide for the rat's nest of small tunnels that ran below the stage area. She would gladly have stripped out of the undergarments there in the hallway but she couldn't maneuver enough to even reach the bloody things.

After checking the next intersection to make sure it was clear, Erik returned to where she struggled with her dress. He looked her up and down and made a small noise, his eyes quite clearly twinkling-- **twinkling**--at her plight.

Christine pushed a sweaty strand of hair from her face. "Was that a snigger I just heard?" she growled. "Are you _laughing_ at me?"

He wisely shook his head no, but she could see him biting his lower lip in an obvious attempt to stifle his amusement. He took hold of her hands and yanked her free of the particularly narrow section. "It's not my fault," she muttered as she stalked after him. "I didn't even want to come to the damn party, and if I'd known I was going to be spending my evening running around down here I would have worn something else!"

Erik stopped so suddenly Christine ran into his back. Turning around to face her, he planted his hands firmly on her shoulders and kissed her mouth quite soundly. When he finally released her, she had her arms about his waist and leaned her head against his chest, sighing.

"I, for one, am very glad you came to the _damn _party," he whispered into her hair. Then he stepped back and opened the door on their left. "The solution to your problem lies within, mam'selle."

Christine would have stridden boldly into the room except she needed a push from him to get through the doorway. Once inside, she waited in the dark while he found a candle and went to light it from one of the gas jets in the hallway. Upon his return, he used the candle to light a lantern that hung from the ceiling, and Christine could finally see that Erik had led her to one of the many costume storage areas within the opera house.

She squeezed his arm. "You are brilliant!"

He gave her a smirk. "I try."

Christine kissed his chin as the heavy skull mask covered most of his face. Stepping away from him, she worked the buttons undone on her gloves and peeled them off, setting them down on the workbench to one side of the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him trying hard to keep his back to her and not watch as she fought with the hooks and ties holding her skirt fastened. "Can you find me something to wear?" she asked. "Preferably something slightly smaller than the boat I'm wearing now."

He laughed, a deep rich chuckle that sent a shiver down her spine, then began looking through the racks of clothing.

The more Christine tried to get out of her clothing, the more difficult the task became. She had the overskirt unfastened, but could not lift it over her head by herself and could not simply step out of it because of the hoops in her underskirt. "Angel," she finally said, "I'm in need of your assistance."

He moved to her side and helped her out of the skirt then with the ties to her petticoats. She let out a sigh of relief when they dropped to the floor and she stepped out of them, kicking them to one side. Clad now in only her undergarments and the bodice portion of the dress, she looked at him over her shoulder. Even in the low light, she could tell he was blushing. "You saw me in less than this the night you first took me to your home," she teased gently.

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet and said, "I wasn't undressing you then."

Catching his hand in hers, she tugged off his glove, then did the same for the other hand. "I'm afraid I have further need of these talented fingers," she told him, daring to kiss his fingertips. His hands were large and square, with strong, blunt fingers, completely the opposite of what one thought of when envisioning an artist's hands. Yet they could coax the most beautiful music from a keyboard or the strings of a violin. _Or her..._

Christine turned her back to him and pulled her mass of hair over her left shoulder. "Will you undo the buttons and then my corset laces?" He complied, and she closed her eyes as the warm touch of his fingertips against her spine sent sparks flying along her nerve endings. She let the unfastened bodice slide down her arms to join the skirt on the floor as he began loosening her corset laces. Noisily, she inhaled the first full breath she'd taken in hours. The corset fell away, and now she stood before him in only her chemise, bloomers and stockings.

Her mouth suddenly dry, Christine licked her lips and swallowed. Erik was still standing behind her; she could feel the heat of him against her back even though he wasn't touching her. "Kiss me," she breathed.

"What?"

Reaching up with her right hand, she touched her fingers to the nape of her neck. "Right here. Kiss me." For a moment, she was afraid he would turn tail and bolt. Then she felt the warm, soft caress of his lips against her skin. _More..._she wasn't certain if she had said it out loud or if he had read her mind, but he kissed her shoulder, the side of her neck, the secret spot behind her ear--"Ow!"

He jerked back in reaction to her cry, causing more pain. "Ow! Ow! Stop! My hair's caught in your mask!"

He stilled. "I'm sorry, Christine." She could feel him trying to untangle the caught section of hair.

She sighed. "Take the mask off, then get it loose," she suggested. She reached up to support the porcelain skull as he removed it then freed her hair. Before he could take the mask back from her, Christine turned to face him.

Automatically, Erik's right hand flew up to cover his face. Christine felt the burn of tears starting and she blinked them back. She set the mask down on the workbench behind her and reached out to touch his chest, curling her fingers around the lapel of his red jacket in case he had ideas of fleeing. "Oh, Erik..."

He scowled at her. "How is it you know my name?" he asked in what she knew was an attempt at ignoring the desire arcing between them.

"I asked Madame Giry," she told him. "Why did you leave me?" Taking hold of his wrist, she managed to pry his hand away from his face. "Was it because of this?" she whispered. He closed his eyes and tried to turn his head away from her, but she hooked an arm around his neck and bent him down enough so that she could brush her lips against the rough skin of his damaged cheek. He made a noise somewhere between a moan and a sob and slid his arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against him.

"I thought you wanted _him,_" he finally choked out.

She kissed his temple and his missing eyebrow. "I thought so too." She placed a butterfly kiss on his damaged eyelid. "I was wrong," she breathed against his lips. "I tried so hard to let you know. I spent every night in the chapel waiting for you."

His hands stroked up and down her back as he kissed her throat. "Then why did you accept his ring?" he growled, nipping at her earlobe.

Christine's hands were working on the buttons of his coat as she kissed his jaw. "I ran out of ways to say no." Her fingers removed the skull stickpin from his cravat. "And I thought you were dead."

He stopped what he was doing and held her at arms length, his gaze boring into her. "Dead?"

She nodded. "I could think of no other reason why you had not come to see me. You had always been there for me. I do not think we had gone a day without speaking to each other in years." Christine ran her fingertips slowly over his cheek, willing her tears not to fall. "I imagined only a catastrophe could keep you from me."

"You grieved for me?" he asked in surprise.

Giving him a sad smile, she said, "More than was good for me. In the first week without you, I realized you were the light in my world." She took his face in her hands. "Please…don't leave me alone in the darkness again."

"Never," he rasped, kissing her fiercely.

She pressed her lips to the underside of his jaw as she tangled her fingers in his hair. "Give me all of you and I will give you all of me, never to part again," Christine whispered in his ear.

His arms tightened around her. Burying his face in the curve of her shoulder, he said in a quietly desperate voice, "Do you know what you're asking?"

She hugged him for the span of several heartbeats before pushing him back to look him in the eyes. She traced the planes of his face with her fingertips, watching the play of the flickering lamplight on his skin. "Yes," she said.

Christine pulled his cravat from his neck then eased her hand inside his unbuttoned jacket. The lawn shirt he wore gaped open over his chest and she slipped her hand beneath the cloth to lay her palm against his skin, her gaze on his face. Erik was warm, his flesh damp with sweat. His heart pounded under her fingers.

His eyes went very wide as he sucked in a breath. "Christine..." he moaned.

She placed a kiss at the base of his throat, boldly flicking her tongue out for a taste of him. A long shudder went through him, but he made no move to return her touch. Keeping her right hand firmly planted on his chest, she reached up with the other and untied the ribbon holding the front of her chemise closed. Sensing what she was about to do, Erik made a noise that might have been desire, or fear.

Grasping his right hand with her left, Christine pried his clenched fingers open and placed his hand on the slight swell of her breast. He shivered. Her gaze searched his face for some kind of emotion. His eyes were closed, but slowly opened as he hesitantly stroked her skin. "Oh...Christine..." he breathed. "You're so...soft. I never imagined..."

She let out a gasp as her nipple tightened under his touch, sending a rush of heat to pool low in her belly. His thumb brushed over it again and Christine thought her legs would go out from under her. Then his hands were at her waist, lifting her up and setting her on the workbench so they were at the same height. Her hands scrabbled at his coat, shoving it off his shoulders as he devoured her lips, her face, her neck. There was a clatter as she unbuckled his sword belt and let it drop to the floor. She gripped his shoulder tightly as he took the tip of her breast into his mouth.

The sound of fabric tearing brought them out of their mad frenzy.

Erik stepped back from her, a strip of her silk chemise hanging from his hand. He studied it for a moment, as if he did not recognize it, then his face crumpled and he looked up at her, tears glistening in his eyes. "Christine, I--I do not know what came over me," he said, horrified. "Please believe me, I would never, never defile you in such a manner."

Swallowing, Christine held up the cummerbund she had stripped from round his waist. "I don't believe it is defilement when the desire is mutual."

"You...you desire me?"

"Yes," she answered, drawing the word out into a long, soft hiss.

He looked at the pile of their mingled clothing pooled around his feet then back at her. "I would not make you my mistress, Christine. You deserve more than that."

Grasping his wrist, she tugged him toward her until she could lean her forehead against his. "I love you. It does not matter to me."

"It does to me," he said, his voice a tight whisper. "I dreamed of this for so long, but not this way. I dreamed of coming to you as your husband."

Closing her eyes, Christine rubbed her cheek against his. She wanted Erik more than she had wanted anything in her life. She wanted to bind him to her with invisible, silken cords so he could never leave her again. She wanted to become a part of him, to crawl inside his soul, to live in his heart so she would always be with him. She looked him in the eye. "Then marry me."

His mouth opened and closed several times before words came out. "I--I--we must go find a priest then. We must have witnesses--clothes, we must have clothes--" He handed her the piece of her chemise he still held. Christine had to hold back her laughter at the look of utter bewilderment on his face.

She touched his chest gently. "Erik." She had to repeat his name several times before he focused on her. "We don't need a priest. A marriage is between two people, between a man and a woman and God." He nodded slowly. "That's all we need. We're here. God is always here." She smiled at him.

He sighed, considering her words. Then he nodded and took both of her hands in his. "Do you--" his voice cracked and he started again. "Do you, Christine, take your devoted Erik, to be your husband in the eyes of God and man, to lead me from my darkness into your light, to love me as I have never been loved? Do you promise to allow me to cherish you for the rest of our days, to join your heart and soul with mine for all eternity?"

She kissed his knuckles. "I do. Do you, Erik, take your undeserving Christine to be your wife in the eyes of God and man, to share with me your darkness and your light, to love me as I have dreamed of being loved? Do you promise to allow me to stay by your side through whatever may come, to join your heart and soul with mine for all eternity?"

"I do," he answered in a soft, awed tone.

"Then you may kiss the bride," she whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck and melted into his kiss.

* * *

To be Continued 


	9. Love and Death Part 3

**Each of these short stories is about point in the 2004 POTO movie where a change could send the story in a new direction. So assume everything is just like the movie, up to the point where each story starts. Each story is then a "divergence" from the original movie.**

**Love And Death Part 3**

He cupped her face in his hands tenderly, planting gentle kisses on her brow and cheeks, her eyelids and temples. Finally his warm, soft lips brushed over her own. He tasted her hesitantly, his tongue tracing the line of her lips but going no further until she opened to him, allowing him entrance. Her tongue stroked his timidly then more boldly as the action sent a flurry of sensation rushing through her. She longed to touch him, but he held her by the arms as he kissed her mouth, her throat, her breasts...oh, God, her breasts. She thrust them wantonly at him, crying out as he took first one then the other in turn between his lips.

Letting go of her arms, Erik touched her quivering stomach, stroking his hands along her ribs then up her back to remove the remnants of her chemise as he sucked at the side of her throat. Hands finally free, Christine slid them inside his open shirt and around his back, pulling him between her spread knees, locking her legs around his hips. He gasped and bucked against her. She could feel his desire for her hard against the inside of her thigh. The thought occurred to her that they were still wearing far too many clothes.

It must have occurred to Erik as well, because his fingers went to the waistband of her bloomers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, lifting herself high enough from the top of the workbench that he could slide them down over her hips. She released the grip her legs had on his waist, and he pushed the undergarment to the floor, then took a half step back.

Christine shivered under the fire of his gaze. His eyes held a mixture of desire and awe, his lips slightly parted, his shoulders moving with each shuddering breath. There had been a time in her life when Christine had been skinny and gawky, all elbows and knees and untamable hair. In many ways, she still saw herself as that awkward girl when she looked in the mirror, no matter what finery she might be wearing. But now, clad only in her silk stockings and the skin she was born in, she felt a woman for the first time--beautiful, sensual, mysterious...and she would die if he did not touch her again.

Erik moved to stand between her legs once more, his mouth descending on hers, his hands coming to rest on her thighs. His fingertips swept slowly back and forth over the exposed flesh at the top of her stockings then stroked along the inside of her legs from her knee to just shy of the place she truly needed his touch.

One long finger traced the contours of her secret place, but his gaze stayed locked to her face, watching her eyes half close and her lips part in pleasure. He rubbed his cheek against hers, nibbling her earlobe. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, "you're like liquid fire..." He brought his finger to his lips and licked it. "And you taste like heaven..."

His wonderful finger delved inside her and Christine lolled her head back, a breathy moan issuing from her throat. "Please, Angel, I need you..." Arching her back, she ground her hips against his hand and his arousal. His fingers stopped their tantalizing movement and withdrew, allowing Christine the ability to think once more. She grabbed hold of the waist of his trousers; her fingers found the buttons along the right hip that held them closed. Together they shoved both pants and undergarment down his thighs.

It was her turn to explore now, and she touched him gently, gliding her fingers from root to tip of his erection while his hands clenched her shoulders. She smiled up at him. "You're so...soft...like velvet over steel..."

Erik gave a croaking laugh, then grasped her inquisitive hand. "Stop, Christine, I won't last if you don't."

Nodding, she moved her arms to around his neck and wrapped her legs about his hips once again. He stared into her eyes, his expression suddenly uncertain. "I...Christine, I don't want to hurt you, but I'm afraid I shall, at least this once. If you don't want me to go on, I'll understand."

She could feel him trembling under the effort it was taking for him to hold back, to offer her a way out, and she loved him all the more for it. Christine stroked his face, pressing her forehead against his. "I need you," she whispered. "I need you inside me. I want to be one with you." She tightened her legs, forcing him closer so his arousal rubbed against her waiting heat. They both moaned, and she said, "Madame...Madame says sometimes it is not so bad for dancers, that we may have already broken our virgin barrier in pursuit of our art."

"I did not know that," Erik managed between clenched teeth, and Christine fought not to giggle. Instead, she gripped him lightly, guiding him to her. She closed her eyes as he pushed into her, breathing through her body's urge to clamp down and deny him entrance. There was no horrible pain, just several very long seconds of an uncomfortably stretched kind of feeling. She felt the heat of him and opened her eyes to find him looking at her. His eyes were huge and dark and so full of love for her that Christine couldn't breathe for the intensity of it.

Then the pressure within her became too much and she had to move. She flexed her hips and arched her back, feeling him slide deeper inside her. Erik let out a startled cry, and Christine sensed a rush of warmth within her. He shuddered against her, burying his face in the curve of her shoulder. "I knew I wouldn't last long, but that was...disheartening." He lifted his head, and even in the dim light she could see the flush of shame creeping up his cheeks.

She kissed him and said, "We shall have to practice often then, to build up your stamina."

He stared at her, his eyes tear-bright. "Christine, I love you," he breathed, then his lips captured hers. It didn't take long before Christine felt him grow firm within her once more.

He pushed her back so that she was lying down atop the workbench, her legs still wrapped around his waist. She wasn't certain she liked this position as he was too far away now for her to touch. Then he trailed his fingers down her chest, stroking her breasts and lightly pinching her nipples. Christine fisted her hands in the pile of fabric beneath her, her hips rising to meet him as he began to move within her. He bent low over her to kiss her, and she ran her hands over the shifting muscles of his back and around to brush her fingertips over his flat nipples. His breathing hitched and his slow, steady rhythm was broken by a deep, hard thrust that made Christine call out his name.

Grasping her hands, Erik lifted them away from him. "Christine, when you touch me it is too much." He kissed the palm of each hand. "Let me please you." A light came into his eyes. "Show me how to please you."

Christine brought his hands to her mouth, kissing and licking each finger and his palms. Then she guided his right hand down to where they were joined, showing him how to stroke the little pearl of flesh there. He watched her eyes close half-way as his touch sent tremors racing through her, sensations she knew he could feel through his connection with her. Groaning, Erik began to move again, faster now and with far less control. She lifted her knees, crossing her ankles higher on his back, and felt his thrusts hitting a place inside her that sent fire shooting along her limbs.

He bent over her, and Christine locked her elbow around his neck, devouring his mouth as pressure rose inside her. It built and built until she thought she would explode, and then she did, shattering into a million shining, sparkling pieces. From a distance, she heard his cry of completion, felt the heat and his shudder. Then he was collapsed atop her with his face pressed against her neck, his tears hot on her skin.

Her hands stroked his hair and rubbed gentle circles on his back until he recovered enough to rise up on his elbows. The look on his face was--a single word could not describe it. It was joy, hope, and love all mixed together with adoration and gratitude. "Christine, oh, Christine, I love you, my wife, my heart, my life..."

Smiling at him, Christine kissed him then sat up, steadying him as he swayed on his feet. There was a brief sense of loss as his body slipped free of hers, but she knew now Erik would always be hers, and that neither of them would ever be alone again.

She slid off the edge of the workbench to stand in front of him, her arms winding about his waist as she found her own legs to be somewhat wobbly. It felt incredibly good just to remain in his embrace, feeling his hands stroking her back and finally coming to rest on her bottom. He gave it an affectionate squeeze and kissed her before letting go of her to pull his trousers up over his hips.

Christine kissed his shoulder then moved away to select a simple peasant's blouse and skirt from one of the clothing racks lining the room. She put them on, not bothering with undergarments, and turned around to find Erik staring at her with a hungry look in his eyes. Warmth spread from her belly through the rest of her, and she smiled as she picked up the remains of her ball gown and petticoats and hid them amongst the other costumes.

She bent to put on her shoes and when she straightened, Erik was in front of her, jacket on over his open shirt and his sword belt slung over his shoulder. He handed Christine her bloomers and the pieces of her chemise, then wrapped his long red cloak around her. His hand brushed her breast in the process, and she let out a little sigh. The smile he gave her was full of promises.

Crossing the room to the back wall, Erik moved a garment rack out of the way and pushed on one of the boards of the wall. A small door swung open. Moving back to the center of the room, he took down the lantern and gestured for Christine to proceed him. She started through the doorway then realized there was something they had left behind.

Walking back to the workbench, she picked up the mask of the Red Death and, wrapping it in her undergarments, tucked it under her arm. As she moved back to Erik's side, he touched the deformed half of his face almost in wonder. "I had completely forgotten," he said. "I have never forgotten."

Christine rose on tiptoe to kiss his right cheek. "Forgotten what, my love? I see nothing that needs hiding here, only my handsome husband." His eyes sparkled with unshed tears and he hugged her tightly.

Then, lifting the lantern, he led her across the threshold into their new life.

* * *

Please be kind and let me know if you liked the story! 


	10. In The Garden of Eden Part 1

**Another two part one for you. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Erik, Christine, or Raoul, though why anyone would want to own him is beyond me. Give me Erik anyday!**

**In The Garden of Eden Part 1**

_"In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came, that voice which calls to me, and speaks my name."_

Christine sat in the back of the open carriage, her eyes on the snowy landscape, the wind pressing her thin scarf to her face like a mask. She saw and felt none of it, her thoughts traveling through the past with _him._

Last night's masquerade was foremost in her mind. His appearance at the ball had shocked her to the core. It was all she could think about, unable even to sleep for the images swirling through her head. Her Angel had been gone so long she had felt abandoned. She knew she had behaved badly at their first meeting and she longed to make amends. She thought they had been friends far too long for him to hold her childish behavior against her forever, but perhaps she had been wrong in her assumption about the depth of his feelings for her. What was she to do, though, when he would not come to her? She had no way of going to him to apologize; Madame had expressly forbidden it. She had filled Christine's head with stories of the dangers lying in wait in the cellars, dangers _he_ had put in place to keep visitors out. If he truly wished to be with Christine, Madame Giry said, he would come for her.

But he never had. Christine grieved for her loss but eventually she realized that her life had to continue.

She allowed Raoul to court her, though she never imagined anything would come of it. After all, she was a dancer and a chorus girl, which was not that far up from a _fille de joie, _and he was a Vicomte. He proposed to her the afternoon of the ball, and for a few hours, she allowed herself to dream what a life among the nobility would be like.

Then her Angel appeared at the top of the staircase and all other thoughts had fled. When he turned his attentions to her, she felt her soul come alive under his hopeful gaze. It was when he tore the ring from her neck that she realized he had always held her heart. What she had offered Raoul had only been a poor substitute.

Her Angel disappeared and Raoul had followed him. When the Vicomte returned, he had some ridiculous notion that the Phantom would try to kidnap Christine. He wanted to whisk Christine off to his country estate for her protection. She adamantly refused, and Madame Giry surprisingly agreed with her. Raoul had to be content with standing guard outside the ballet dormitories.

She tossed and turned all night, hoping beyond hope to hear her Angel's voice as she lay in her bed. He had never appeared, and with the dawn's coming light, Christine made up her mind. She would go to the only place she knew no one would bother her, her father's grave, and try to make sense of everything that had happened to her.

The carriage came to a stop outside the cemetery gates. Christine climbed down carefully, her mind still on her problems. It was as she passed through the gate that she realized she had left the bouquet of roses for her father on the carriage seat. Looking back, she cried, "Wait!"

The driver turned his head toward her. Beneath the shadow of his hood, Christine caught a glimpse of white. Her heart leapt. "Angel?" It came out a choked whisper.

He pulled the horses to a halt, then jumped down to tie them to the hitching rail. Christine waited anxiously as he rounded the carriage and walked through the gates, her heart dancing in her chest.

Hood still low over his face, he came toward her then dropped to his knees in the snow before her, holding the roses out to her. She took them from his gloved hand. Hesitantly, she reached out to him and gently pushed the hood back. He looked up at her slowly, his eyes bright.

"Angel...oh, Angel, you're really here." She laid her hand along his uncovered cheek and he turned his face into the caress, his eyes closing.

"Christine," he murmured. With what felt like her first genuine smile in months on her lips, Christine took hold of the collar of his cloak and tugged gently. He rose to his feet and she threw her arms about his waist, hugging him tightly. His surprise was evident in the way he stiffened, but as she leaned her head against his shoulder, she felt his stance soften and his arms come around her. He held her loosely, as if he was afraid she would break if he applied too much pressure.

When she finally took a step back to gaze up at him, the expression on his face dazzled her, so bright was the joy in his eyes. Christine hooked her arm through his. "Walk with me to my father's grave?" she asked.

Nodding, he laid his left hand over hers where it rested on his arm and went with her.

There was silence between them for a time, not an awkward silence as she so often felt with Raoul, but a comfortable quiet broken only by the crunch of their footsteps on the newly fallen snow. The air was crisp and cold, and Christine smiled as her breath mingled with her Angel's to form a feathery cloud.

She was the first to speak. "Why did you leave me? I missed you terribly."

The rhythm of his footsteps faltered for a moment and his grip on her arm tightened. "I thought--I thought you no longer had a need for your angel," he answered, his voice low.

She moved in front of him, her hand on his chest bringing him to a stop. "Why would you think that?"

Unable to look her in the eye, his gaze wandered to a statue of a praying angel, the muscle in his cheek twitching. "I heard you," he said at last, "I heard you tell that boy that you were frightened of me, that you wanted no more of me, or my world of eternal night."

The pain in his voice brought tears to Christine's eyes. "Oh..." she breathed, "oh..." Not knowing what else to do, she flung her arms around him in a tight embrace, suddenly afraid that if she did not hold on to him he would disappear again. "I am so sorry. I--that whole night is a muddled blur. I said many things then that I have come to deeply regret."

One of his hands came to rest at the small of her back, the other she could feel tenderly stroking her hair. So softly she could barely hear him, he asked, "Then there is still a chance for me? For us?"

Lifting her head from his shoulder, Christine met his gaze. "When you took the ring from my neck last night, it was as if I could breathe again. I finally knew what I had felt the night you first came to me was real, and it was what I have been yearning for ever since." She laid her hand on his chest and he brought his own up to cover it.

"You do not love the boy?" he asked, astonished.

She shook her head. "He was my childhood friend, and because of that will always be dear to me, but he thinks of me as Little Lotte still. He does not see me for who I truly am, while you have been there for me for over half my life. You are my best friend, Angel. We have known each other's hearts and minds for so many years, if not each other's faces. There is a world between us that no one else could ever possibly share. I cannot imagine a life without you."

Bringing their joined hands up to his lips, he kissed the back of her fingers. "I think I would die without you," he whispered.

"Then I will never leave you," she answered, kissing his cheek tenderly. For the first time, Christine saw him smile. It was not a big smile, just a gentle lifting of the corners of his mouth, but she thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

He took her arm again and they walked the rest of the way to her father's tomb, their hearts silently speaking the words their voices could not. They stopped at the foot of the steps leading up to the mausoleum and he released her, saying, "Go on. I'll wait for you here."

Christine grasped his hand. "I would like you to come with me. In a strange and round about way, my father brought us together, after all." Again, he gave her that tiny smile, and she felt a pleasant fluttering in her stomach at the sight of it.

They ascended to the gates of the crypt, and he tugged them open, both of them wincing at the shriek made by the seldom-used hinges. Entering the mausoleum, Christine laid the bouquet of roses on her father's sepulchre then stepped back. She crossed herself and bowed her head to say a silent prayer.

When she looked up again, her Angel was beside her, his hand on her back. She moved into the warmth of his embrace. "I'm glad you're here. I think you and my father would have been kindred spirits."

His arm tightened around her. "I heard him play once," he told her. She turned toward him, her face lighting up. "It was before you were born. He came to the opera house to play at a special performance." His eyes closed for a moment as he reminisced. "He played simple folk tunes with such passion as to make an angry, embittered, outcast young man cry."

There was such pain and longing in his voice that Christine felt compelled to take his hand in empathy, her gaze never leaving his face. He looked down at her, his eyes a liquid green in the gray light filtering into the mausoleum. "His young bride was with him, and she joined him on several songs. Her voice was not a soprano, as yours is, but a low, rich alto that could imbue a single note with the warmth of a fire in a hearth, or the colors of autumn."

Christine felt her lower lip begin to tremble. "My mother...you saw my mother?"

He touched her face, his fingers tracing the sweep of her eyebrow and the curve of her ear before coming to rest against her cheek. "You are very much like her, Christine. You have her fair coloring, her dark curls and her beautiful smile. Your eyes, though, they are the eyes of your father. Your mother's eyes were the palest blue, like the sky on a bright, clear winter's day." His thumb brushed over her quivering lips. "She loved your father very much, and he her. One could see it in the way they looked at each other, as if they saw the world in each other's eyes."

Emotion flickered across his face and it was several seconds before he spoke again. "For the first time I understood what that indefinable thing called love was...and I realized I would give my very soul to have a woman look at me the way your mother did your father."

"I--I never knew my mother," Christine whispered. "She died when I was born."

He opened his arms at her words and she fell into them, pressing her tear-streaked face against his chest. "I'm sorry, Christine. I did not mean to upset you." He produced a handkerchief, handing it to her.

She dabbed at her eyes with it as she said, "You did nothing wrong. I'm very glad you told me. But why have you never spoken to me of this before?"

His chin resting against her curls, he said sadly, "It is not a story a man pretending to be an angel would tell a child--"

"--but one a man would tell the woman he loves..." Christine finished. She stepped back to look at him.

He seemed suddenly fragile to her in that moment, his shoulders slumped, the sparkle gone from his eyes. He looked away from her, out toward the cemetery grounds. "We should go," he said. "The snow is coming down harder."

It didn't look like the snow was any worse to Christine, but she nodded and left her father's tomb. As she waited for him to close the gates once more, she stuck out her tongue and turned her face up to the sky, reveling in the sensation of snowflakes striking her skin.

"What are you doing, Christine?" he asked.

She looked at him. "Catching snowflakes on my tongue. Haven't you ever--" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized he had probably not ever romped in the snow as a child. She clasped his hands. "Try it." At his arched eyebrow, she said, "Just lean your head back and stick out your tongue. It won't hurt you." She demonstrated.

When she looked back at him, he had his face tilted up and tongue stuck out. He somehow managed to look quite solemn in that position. A fat flake landed on the end of his tongue. He let it melt then looked down at her, that tiny smile on his lips again. "An interesting sensation," he told her. "A brief instant of cold becomes a drop of liquid that has no taste."

Her heart soaring, Christine put her hand on the back of his neck, her gaze locking with his. "Do you have a name other than Angel?" she asked.

He looked somewhat startled by the question but answered, "I cannot remember the name I was born with, but I chose a name when I came to live at the opera house. I have never told it to anyone. I am Erik."

She smiled. "Erik," she said, trying the name on her tongue. It felt...right, somehow.

The gray-green eyes gazing so steadily into hers filled with tears. "No one's--no one's ever said my name before," he whispered.

Christine hugged him. "Erik. Erik, Erik, Erik," she breathed in his ear. "I love you, Erik."

He squeezed her so tightly she couldn't breathe for a moment then he released her, moving away and turning the masked side of his face to her.

What had she done wrong? "Erik?"

His hand clenched into a fist as he said hoarsely, "Do not tempt me, Christine, with dreams that can never come true."

Being able to see only the "blank" side of his face was disconcerting. "You're talking in riddles. I meant what I said. I love you."

"Do not say that again!" he snapped, rounding on her. Fury blazed in his eyes, but she could see it was fed by pain. "I will not be made a fool of! You are still betrothed to that boy! Your love is not yours to give!"

* * *

To Be Continued


	11. In The Garden of Eden Part 2

**Here's the rest of "Garden". I hope you like it. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. I've updated my website (see link in my profile) and have put these stories up with artwork, if anyone's interested. Just click on the photo of Erik to go the my Phantom fiction page. I have two more completed stories to post, then four more to write and Divergence will be finished.**

**In The Garden of Eden Part 2**

"Do not say that again!" he snapped, rounding on her. Fury blazed in his eyes, but she could see it was fed by pain. "I will not be made a fool of! You are still betrothed to that boy! Your love is not yours to give!"

Now she understood his anger. What good was her offer of love if she could not follow through on her words? "Raoul and I are no longer engaged, Erik." It was the first time she had ever seen him truly stunned. His eyes widened, his mouth opened but no words came out. "I made it plain to him last night, after he returned from hunting you, that I could not marry him."

"But why?"

Tears filled Christine's eyes at those two simple words. He truly could not comprehend everything she had said to him since they had arrived at the cemetery. He had thought her to be toying with him, giving him pretty words to console him before she went back to Raoul. She wanted to be angry with him at his lack of trust, but she had made enough mistakes, caused him enough pain, for him to be wary of trusting her. Silently she cursed herself and the world that had taught him to think words of love were only a prelude to injury and abandonment.

There was a small puddle of water near the corner of the wall that surrounded her father's mausoleum. Grasping Erik by the sleeve, Christine led him over to it. She stared into its shallow depths, forcing him to do the same. "There," she said, pointing down at the reflection in the smooth surface. "That is the reason I will not be marrying the Vicomte."

His gaze followed her finger, and she felt his shock roll through him in a long shudder as he understood. She tightened her grip on his arm. "There is the man I love. Strange how he bears no resemblance at all to the Vicomte de Chagny."

A drop of water struck the surface of the puddle, concentric ripples spreading out from it and dissolving their images. Christine looked at Erik. He was crying silently, tears dripping from his chin into the puddle, his lower lip caught in his teeth.

Sensing her gaze upon him, Erik turned his face toward her. "Christine," he whispered, "_Christine, I love you._"

She brushed her hand over his cheek, wiping away his tears. "I love you," she whispered back. She touched her lips to his in a soft kiss, feeling his arms go around her waist. Her fingers slid into his hair as he returned her kiss. Her left hand came up to touch his face and knocked his mask askew. Without breaking their kiss, he simply pulled it off and let it drop to the ground.

Christine laid her palm against the reddened flesh, her thumb stroking his temple as her lips slid over to his cheek. He was hot where the leather mask had covered him, and he tasted of tears and sweat. It was ambrosia to Christine.

Finally, Erik caught her hands in his and leaned his forehead against hers. They stood there breathing heavily, for a moment both too winded to speak. "Christine," he began, "Christine, will you--"

The thud of pounding hooves interrupted him. They turned toward the sound. A large white horse approached them at a gallop, Raoul on its back. Leaping from the steed before it came to a halt, the Vicomte drew his sword. "Christine! Get away from that monster!"

She felt Erik go deathly still next to her. "Erik, no," she murmured. "His words have no sway with me any longer." Turning her gaze to Raoul, she said in a loud, clear voice, "Go away, Raoul. You're not wanted here."

Raoul ignored her, pointing his sword at Erik, but not advancing up the steps toward them. "What have you done to her? You've bewitched her! I can only imagine what manner of vile things you had planned if I had not shown up!"

Erik turned his face fully toward the Vicomte, letting him see the deformed side for the first time. Raoul's gasp of horror was clearly audible. Christine clutched at Erik's sleeve as he drew his sword from its sheath. "He's not worth it!" She moved to block his path to the steps. "I won't lose you!"

He glanced down at her, his eyes the color of stormy seas. "I'll not kill him, Christine, though I doubt he will grant me that courtesy." Moving past her, Erik leapt down the stairs, his cape flowing like great black wings behind him.

Taking advantage of his forward momentum, Erik swung first, his sword coming down heavily on Raoul's. The younger man staggered back under the force of the blow, nearly falling. Christine gasped.

The Vicomte recovered quickly with a lunge Erik narrowly avoided. Christine clenched her fists so tightly her fingernails dug into her palms. She had seen Raoul fence before. She had been present for several of his fencing lessons when they had been courting, and she feared more for Erik than for him.

Descending from her father's mausoleum, she followed the two men as the fight traveled through the cemetery. Erik moved like a panther, with a dangerous flowing grace, but a fencer he was not. He fought with a brute strength more suited to a broadsword or a Viking ax than a rapier. Raoul reminded Christine of a bear dog, darting in and out with speed, nipping at his prey, no single blow meant to disable but the sum designed to wear Erik down.

As Christine drew closer to the pair, she could hear Raoul taunting Erik. "Christine could never love you! You are a horror, a spawn of evil! It is only out of pity she can stand to look upon you at all!" Erik parried each of Raoul's advances as if he did not hear the Vicomte's words, but Christine could see the pain and doubt in his eyes.

"Give up, beast. You belong in a cage! What will happen when Christine wakes from your spell and sees you as you truly are? She will leave you, you know she will!"

Anger surged through Christine. "How dare you! You blackguard! You know nothing of my love, nothing!"

Erik's gaze flicked to her for the briefest of moments, but it was nearly his undoing. Raoul's sword slashed through the air and her Angel cried out. He stepped back, shaking his head, and Christine could see blood pouring from a cut on his deformed cheek.

Raoul didn't hesitate, lunging at the injured man. Erik barely got his sword up in time to deflect the blow. He stumbled backwards, his feet slipping on the snow. "Stop it!" Christine yelled, but neither man seemed to hear her. Tripping over a grave marker, Erik fell to his knees, nearly blinded by blood and pain. Raoul stepped on his rapier, disarming him.

He was raising his sword for the fatal blow when Christine struck him across the back with a dead branch. "Christine, what--?" he began as he turned toward her. She hit him again, rage giving her strength she never imagined she was capable of, and Raoul crumpled to the ground. She stared down at him, her chest heaving, the branch dropping from her suddenly lax fingers. Picking up his sword, she hurled it across the cemetery then crouched next to Erik.

He stared at her, his hand over his wound. Christine touched his good cheek and burst into tears. "I was so frightened he would kill you," she sobbed, hating herself for falling apart. She pulled her scarf from around her neck and wet it with snow then carefully wiped at the blood on his face. He winced. "Sorry," she murmured, her tears fading as she busied herself with taking care of him. "I don't think it's too bad. The bleeding's nearly stopped." Letting him hold the scarf in place, she sat back on her heels and chewed her lower lip, her gaze straying to where Raoul still lay unmoving. "I've killed him..."

Erik shook his head. "No, he's still breathing. Look." At his words, Christine could see the Vicomte's chest rising and falling slowly. Getting to his feet, Erik helped her up.

"Now what?" she asked him.

Walking over to where his sword lay, he sheathed it then said, "I don't know. When I took the stableman's place this morning, all I wanted was the opportunity to speak with you alone. I never anticipated this."

Christine wound her fingers in the edges of her cape. "Yet you came armed."

His eyes were sad as he looked up from the form of the Vicomte. "I am always armed, Christine. The world is not a safe place for me to be, especially in the daylight."

She felt the prickle of tears again. "Not everyone is like Raoul, Erik."

Picking up the unconscious man, Erik slung him over his shoulder. "I know, Christine, but I have learned to be prepared for the worst." She followed him back toward her father's mausoleum. Erik started toward the horse Raoul had arrived on, but the Vicomte made a noise and stirred. "Damn it. I was hoping he would be out long enough for us to decide what to do with him. Any suggestions?"

"Lock him in the crypt? I don't have a key but maybe we can bar the door with something." She ran up the steps and opened the gate. Erik carried Raoul into the mausoleum and set him down on the floor. "He doesn't have a coat," Christine said.

Erik gave her a look. "That's hardly my fault he went running out in the cold without one." Still, he removed his cape and draped it over the semi-conscious man. Exiting the crypt, he shut the gates then used the belt from his sword to tie them shut. "It won't hold him for long, but perhaps it will delay him enough that we can get away."

Until that moment, Christine hadn't given much thought to what they should do next, and she could see he hadn't either. She looked over at the white horse. "Take the horse with us?"

Erik frowned. "Perhaps as far as the gate." Taking hold of the animal's bridle, he began to walk toward the front of the cemetery.

Christine picked up his mask from where he had dropped it what seemed like a lifetime ago. She had to run a couple of steps to catch up with him. "Your cheek is bleeding again. There's a physician's not far from here. He looked at my foot that time I twisted it on a visit to my father's grave two years ago. I'm sure he would help us. He was very kind."

Halting the horse, Erik turned to look at her. "Christine, I--"

She interrupted him as she remembered they had left something unfinished. "What was it you were going to ask me before Raoul showed up?"

He sighed and started walking again. "Now is not really the time--"

"My answer is yes, of course, but a girl still likes to hear the question," she said, linking her arm with his and smiling at him.

Shaking his head, Erik managed a small laugh. "You are impossible...and I love you more than I ever thought was possible. Christine, will you marry me?"

"Yes," she answered then stopped both him and the horse so she could kiss him. When she finally stepped back to look into his eyes, the love she saw shining there eased her worries about the future. Cast out into the world for the first time in both their lives, together they would survive, and they would never be alone again.

* * *

Please review and force me to quit making photo manips and write!


	12. Crestfallen Soul

**I'm back with another short story. This is a little different because we get to see some things from Erik's point of view. I will be very busy this weekend, so the next update will probably be early next week.**

**Crestfallen Soul**

_"Raoul, I'm frightened, don't make me do this. It scares me. Don't put me through this ordeal by fire. He'll take me, I know, we'll be parted forever, he won't let me go. What I once used to dream I now dread, if he finds me it won't ever end...he'll always be there, singing songs in my head..."_

His footsteps slowed as he drew near the chapel on his way to the cellars from the dome over the theater. He could hear the murmur of voices but it wasn't until he crept up to the brass gate that he realized it was Christine speaking to that _boy_.

Rage surged through him and for an instant it drowned out everything else. Then torment in her voice jolted him from his angry haze, bringing him back to the scene playing out in the chapel. He pressed his body as close to the opening as he dared, listening to her frightened pleas.

_" Twisted every way, what answer can I give? Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live? Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice? Do we become his prey, do I have any choice? He kills without a thought, he murders all that's good. I know I can't refuse, and yet I wish I could. Oh, God, if I agree, what horrors wait for me in this, the Phantom's opera?"  
_

Every word was a razor sharp blade piercing his heart, cutting his soul to ribbons. How could this be? Christine _knew_ him, knew he could never harm her...the boy! The boy had turned her against him! As soon as the thought sprang into his mind, he knew it for the lie it was. **He **had done this. He was the cause of Christine's fears; he had taken ten years of love, of friendship, and destroyed it with his own hands. She was everything that was pure and good in his world, and he had infected her with his darkness, made her a witness to his evil, murdering soul. No wonder the thought of him terrified her.

He turned away from the gate, hand to his mouth as he tried not to be ill. He managed to force back the bile that rose in his throat, but he could not hold back the tears. Sliding down the wall, he crouched on the cold stone floor, for the first time since Christine had come into his life feeling completely and utterly alone. There was nothing left for him here now, nothing for him anywhere. Even the thought of hearing his _Don Juan_ performed made him feel hollow and sick inside.

He had written it for Christine, to convey to her the only way he knew how what he felt for her. It had been his plan all along to take Don Juan's place on stage, to sing those words to her, to hear her sing her desire back to him. But they were his words, not hers. She would never desire him as a woman desires a man. He was a monster, a creature of darkness, and she was an angel.

Taking off his mask, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes in a vain attempt to stop the tears. Christine had loved her Angel of Music, not him, not the Phantom, not Erik. He should have never revealed himself to her; he should have been content to just be the voice in her dreams. She could never love him, no one ever could. He had known that, he had always known that. Why, why, why did it hurt so much? Why could he not have the courage to end this pain years ago?

Pulling his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them and hid his face, rocking back and forth. Lost in his despair, he did not hear the footsteps coming closer, or the faint squeak as the gate opened.

* * *

Christine remained in the chapel after Raoul left, attempting to find some inner calm before she had to start getting ready for the performance. Wiping at her eyes, she wondered who she was crying for, herself or the man she was about to betray. She had told Raoul she had no choice, and truly she didn't feel she had. If she refused, the managers were well within their rights to fire her and throw her out onto the street. Raoul, of course, would take her in, but that would mean marriage and the end of her career, neither of which she felt she was ready for.

She thought she was going mad now, but without her music she would be truly lost. Worst of all, she missed her Angel. Her best friend had become the Phantom, someone she no longer thought she knew. He had always been so gentle and loving with her. He was a strict teacher but she had known his demands had come from his desire for her to do her best. His friendship and belief in her when she had been at her lowest after the death of her father had saved her; she truly believed that. She couldn't help but feel that if her Angel were here, he would know just what to do to fix the situation she found herself in.

But there was no Angel to save her now, only the Phantom, whom everyone said would steal her away which didn't seem such a bad thing the more she thought about it. The prospect of being anywhere but here was very appealing at the moment.

Sighing, Christine closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for her father...and her Angel, wherever he might be. It was then, when her thoughts were focused on the welfare of someone else, that she heard the sound of crying. The noise was faint, as if whoever it was did not wish to be heard. But the peculiar acoustics of the opera house carried the sound to her.

Getting to her feet, Christine went to the open door of the chapel. The cries were not coming from the hallway, and no one was in sight. She stepped back inside the room. The sound was definitely louder here. She crossed to the brass screen that covered an arched opening in the wall. Christine had always assumed it led further down into the cellars, but she had never thought to go through it before tonight.

The sobs grew louder the closer she got to the gate, though they were still muffled. For the first time, she noticed the handle that blended perfectly within the grillwork. Grasping the handle, Christine tried the gate. It opened almost silently on well-oiled hinges. Taking a breath, she stepped through it then paused, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Enough light filtered in from the chapel that she could gradually make out the form of a man seated on the ground, his back against the wall.

His head was bowed over his bent knees, his face hidden in his folded arms as his shoulders shook with stifled sobs. Despite this, there was no mistaking the dark hair that just brushed the collar of the white linen shirt he wore and the bit of pale cheek she could see. The sight of him that way, seeming so small and powerless, startled her. Did angels cry? Did ghosts?

It took her two tries before a whisper escaped her lips. "Angel?"

His head came up swiftly and she realized he wasn't wearing his mask the same moment he did. He turned his face away from her, his hands scrabbling on the floor for it. When he didn't immediately find it, he covered the right side of his face with his hand before turning back to her.

Something twisted painfully inside Christine. His face was streaked with tears, his expression one of shame and loss. "Oh, Christine...I never meant..." His voice trailed off and he swallowed and tried again. "I only wanted...only wanted you to...to love me...never hurt you, never."

He seemed to run out of words then, and really, no more were necessary. She could read the look in his eyes easily. It was one she had seen too often in her mirror, of someone whose entire world had been shattered.

Suddenly the idea that she had ever felt afraid of him seemed ridiculous. Kneeling next to him, Christine slid her arm around his shoulders and pulled him to her. He resisted at first, but finally rested his head on her shoulder, his hushed sobs shaking them both. Bringing her hand up to gently touch his uncovered cheek, she rocked him in her arms as she would a distraught child, crooning to him softly. She didn't know how long she held him, but it was long enough for his tears to soak her blouse and for her to realize from the way he clung to her that no one had ever comforted him before.

Tears filled her eyes as everything came together at once, overheard conversations, the story Madame Giry had given Raoul and he had repeated to Christine, and her own interactions with her Angel. He was afraid, she realized, always afraid of being hurt, of being rejected for something he could do nothing about. The thought of going her entire life without being touched, without knowing love or friendship--she would have withered away at a young age.

He had seemed so strong, but now she knew his strength was a mask to hide his lonely and aching heart. "Oh, Angel, what fools we have been," she whispered. "If only we had both been a little bit braver, a little more trusting of each other, we would not be in this mess right now."

His tears had run dry several minutes ago, but he still rested his head on her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. She stroked his hair, pressing her cheek against his forehead. This was how it should have been, the two of them finding their strength in each other, not pain, not fear. Letting out a sigh, he finally straightened up and Christine reluctantly let him go. He looked awful, both of his eyes red and swollen, his face still wet. She wiped his cheeks with her fingertips, trying to keep her own tears from falling. His eyes were so sad, so defeated that it frightened her. What would he do now?

"You should go, Christine," he rasped. "You should be getting ready." He felt around on the floor for his mask.

She hugged herself, looking away to the still open gate to the chapel. She could not do this to him. Raoul and the managers could go to hell. She turned back to him. "No. Raoul has filled the place with gendarmes and plans to have you shot on sight."

He sat back against the wall, mask in hand. As he brushed the dust off it of it, he said, "Perhaps it would be best if they did shoot me, put me out of the misery I have spent so many years in."

Christine thought her heart could not break anymore, but she felt it crack at his words. "Angel, no, do not say things like that."

"Why not? As far as they're concerned, it would be for the best." He settled his mask in place and got to his feet. Christine sensed him closing himself off from her as surely as if he had shut a door.

"I will not be a participant in what amounts to murder," she snapped, standing up as well.

"You weren't so hesitant before with _him_," he said with a sneer

For a moment, she felt hurt, until she looked in his eyes and saw the despair hiding there. The man who had cried in her arms had been real; this coldness, this anger was only the mask. She stepped into him, laying her hand on his chest. "I didn't have a choice then." She cupped his bare cheek with her hand and felt a fine tremor go through him. "I do now, and so do you."

He looked down at her, his expression flickering between confusion and joy. "What are you saying?" he finally whispered.

Christine swallowed, searching for the strength she had felt before. "I'm saying that we should leave here, leave all these petty schemes and plans behind. You are so much more than this, so much more than an opera ghost, a puppet master. You should leave, and I should go with you."

She thought for a moment he would start crying again. "You truly mean that?" he asked.

Her decision made now, there was no more fear. "Yes. For so many years, you were all I wanted, but could never have. Then when I had you, I ruined everything. I want to try again, Angel. I want us to be all the things I dreamed of."

"Oh, Christine," he moaned, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly to him. "I had so many dreams of you, of us, so many wishes I thought could never come true. I love you, Christine."

Raising up on her toes, she brushed her lips gently against his. When they broke apart, she asked, "So what now?"

He held her face in his hands, staring down at her as if he could not believe she was real. "I--we--they'll be looking for you soon. You have to go." She started to protest, but he shook his head. "No, Christine, you have to perform. Afterwards, when everyone is gone and the opera house has gone to bed, I will come for you then."

"But I don't want--" His fingertips against her lips silenced her. "All right, I will do as you ask, but you must make me a promise."

He pulled her to him again and buried his face in her hair. "Anything, Christine."

She wrapped her fingers in his shirt. "Promise me that you will go straight to your home and remain there until the opera is over and the gendarmes have gone." She felt him stiffen and pull back slightly. She looked him in the eyes. "Promise me, Angel. Swear on my life you will not leave the cellars."

He kissed her forehead. "I think that's fair enough. I swear on your life that I will not leave my home until the opera is over."

Giving him a tremulous smile, Christine kissed him then moved toward the doorway to the chapel. "I will be waiting for you," she told him.

She thought she saw tears glistening once more in his eyes as he nodded then disappeared into the shadows.

* * *

If you enjoyed this, please read and review.


	13. Crossing The River

**I decided that not all the divergences should have happy endings, after all, even the path of true love doesn't always run straight. Consider this Don Juan Triumphant as Shakespearean tragedy. If you absolutely feel you need more warning than this before reading, scroll down to the bottom for an Author's Note. **

**There are four more divergences to go before I'm done, but I've reached the end of what I had prewritten, so please be patient as I work on the rest. Thanks, and reviews have been shown to make authors write faster.**

**Disclaimer: As always, I don't own the Phantom of the Opera.**

**Crossing The River**

_"No dreams within her heart but dreams of joy..."_

Christine crossed the Don Juan set to stage right and took a seat on the step. Plucking a rose from the basket she carried, she was pricked by a thorn. The sharp pain and the tiny spot of blood that appeared on her fingertip reminded her that she was no longer in her Angel's carefully orchestrated world where all roses bore no thorns. Raoul thought to control the opera house now, but what did it say of him that in his world roses carried weapons?

_"Passarino, go away for the trap is set and waits for its prey..."_

Christine's blood turned to ice. Erik! What was he doing here? Hadn't he gotten her message? Madame Giry had sworn she delivered it directly into his hands. He had to know the performance of his opera was a trap; the gendarmes presence was hardly subtle. Rising, she turned toward him, pleading with him silently to flee.

He put a finger to his lips and tilted his head. What? He thought she would give him away? It was all she could do not to scream "Run!" What was he playing at? He could be killed! Then his hand was at her throat and his warm breath in her ear. In horror, Christine realized he didn't care about the danger. He was willing to die to touch her like this, to say these words to her, to hear her sing of passion to him. _Oh, Erik.._.she thought then it was her turn to sing.

She watched Erik's gaze flick to Box Five, and she lowered her eyelids, peeking out through her lashes to see Raoul's reaction. He was gesturing to the policeman in his box, motioning him forward. Christine caught the Vicomte's gaze and shook her head, praying that he would not give the command to have Erik shot. It was only when she saw him make a downward motion with his hand, and the police in both his box and the managers moved back, that she turned toward Erik and began her approach to the stairs.

They climbed their spiral staircases in unison, their attention never wavering from each other. As they reached the catwalk stretching between the two stairways, Erik tossed his cape with a flourish over the railing, and Christine shivered. He moved toward her like a cat, his eyes locked with hers. They met in the center of the bridge, singing the last lines of the song in unison as he spun her around and pulled her against him. His hands were on top of hers as she caressed herself, her fingers gliding over her hips and belly, across her breasts to her throat.

_"...The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn...we've passed the point of no return..."_ she sang with him, her voice trembling as the last note faded away. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, her eyes closed, completely immersed in the feel of his strong body pressed against hers. His fingers stroked her neck, the curve of her shoulder, his cheek against her hair.

This is how it should be, her heart cried as he sang very softly to her. Listen to him, he needs you, only you can save him, Christine, only you. He loves you enough to die for you. Her eyes snapped open at that thought, and she turned to face him as he clasped her hand with both of his.

_"...Anywhere you go, let me go, too, Christine, that's all I ask of you!"_

The theater faded away as she looked into his eyes so full of love and hope. She laid her hand against his cheek and he turned his head into her caress, lips brushing her palm before he looked back at her. Raising up on her toes, Christine touched her mouth to his in a tender kiss. She felt his surprise in the way his lips trembled against hers, but then he kissed back gently. It only lasted a few seconds, but the sensations that kiss sent racing through Christine left her dizzy.

She gazed up at him, seeing her look of wonder mirrored in his eyes. "I love you," she said in a hushed voice.

The sharp crack of thunder shattered the moment and Erik's look of amazement turned to confusion. His grip on her hand tightened painfully at the same instant that Christine felt like someone had punched her in the chest. His free hand grabbed her shoulder as he began to fall, a crimson stain spreading across his shirt front. "Erik!" she screamed, her lungs burning. She tried to hold him up, her arm wrapping around his waist.

All her strength seemed to leave her, though, and he dragged her down to kneel beside him as he sprawled on the catwalk. "Christine...Christine, I love you," he whispered.

She looked down at the blood on his chest, a sob rising in her throat. "No, no, don't leave me. You can't leave me," she moaned, her fingers fumbling with his mask before finally ripping it away. She kissed his brow and the reddened, scarred flesh of his cheek. "No...no..."

He reached up to her, his hand falling short of her face, his fingers brushing over her collarbone. They came away red. Tears filled his eyes. "Oh, Christine...I'm sorry...so sorry..."

Christine suddenly became aware of the fire in her chest and the next breath she took felt labored and wet. She bent over him, her lips next to his ear. "You wait for me, Erik. I'll be right behind you. Promise me you'll wait for me..."

His fingertips grazed her jaw as she stared into his face. "I will wait...Christine...but somehow, I do not think we will end up in the same place. I am not an…angel like you…I will--I will love you...always..." His hand fell away as the light faded from his jade eyes.

She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing as she rocked him in her arms. Her hand brushed against something solid at the small of his back. She pulled it free of his clothing and stared at it for a moment, wondering why Erik would need a knife, before hiding it in the folds of her skirt.

The sound of shouts and pounding feet finally reached her, and Christine looked up from her fallen Angel to see Raoul stepping onto the catwalk, the familiar face of the opera house physician behind him. She tried to take a deep breath, but ended up coughing, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth.

"Christine!" It was Raoul calling to her. She knew he would stop at nothing to keep her from joining Erik.

She kissed her Angel one last time then pulled his blade from beneath her skirt. Wrapping both hands around the hilt, she carefully positioned the tip just below her left breast and shoved upward.

Collapsing across Erik's chest, Christine felt peace. Sounds were muffled and far away, colors running like fresh dye in the rain. She blinked once, twice, then darkness surrounded her.

She floated in a sea of black, feeling nothing, no pain, no fear, only joy, only love. A voice in the distance called to her, her Angel's voice. It urged her to come to him, to her Angel of Music. She opened her eyes to find him standing on the banks of a river, his arms outstretched. Gladly, Christine fell into them, and as his lips met hers in the gentlest of kisses, she knew she had found her way home.

* * *

**A/N: Warning Main Character Death**


	14. Beneath The Surface

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera.**

**A/N This is the first of three divergences from the final lair scene. Enjoy! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and added me to their favorites list.**

**Beneath The Surface**

_"This haunted face, holds no horror for me now. It's in your soul, that the true distortion lies."_ She said the words as gently as she could. There was no hate in her heart for her fallen angel, only sorrow.

His eyes closed as his head lowered and Christine saw shame cross his marred features, his anger draining away. She started toward him with the thought of taking his hand, of telling him she cared for him, but the madness, the violence had to end. He knew it was wrong; it was there in every line of his face.

Her fingers were inches from his when the noise of splashing water broke the moment. His head came up, an expression of feral cunning in his eyes. _"I think, my dear, we have a guest."_

Christine turned toward the portcullis to see a soaked and bedraggled Raoul approaching. No...No! She had been so close to reaching her Angel, to breaking through the haze of pain that blinded him to everything but his desperate need to possess her.

Erik taunted Raoul, pulling Christine roughly to him. "Please, Angel, stop this," she pleaded, but he didn't seem to hear her. Walking over to a lever rising from the floor, he raised the portcullis to let his rival in, wading out through the water to meet him.

At first, Christine was relieved that this time neither of them had swords, but then she gasped in horror as Erik reached down into the water, his hand coming up with a rope. Raoul, distracted by the gate descending behind him, could do nothing as the lasso settled over his shoulders and tightened, pinning his arms to his side. Erik shoved Raoul against the portcullis and lashed him in place.

He turned to face Christine, his eyes nearly glowing with rage and pain. _"Start a new life with me, buy his freedom with your love. Refuse and send your lover to his death! This is the choice! This is the point of no return!" _he snarled, his body contorted with fury. He stared at her, his disheveled hair in his eyes, his chest heaving like some rabid beast.

Christine's gaze searched his features, but she could find no trace of her angel. Tears blurred her vision and grief washed over her. Erik...her teacher, her friend and, in a moment of clarity that came much too late, the man she now knew she loved, was lost to her. _"The tears I might have shed for your dark fate, grow cold and turn to tears of hate!"_

His expression changed for a fraction of a second. Was it resignation she saw flicker in his eyes? Then the moment was gone and Erik strode back to shore, moving stiffly past her to pick up a coil of rope. He started back toward Raoul.

Christine stepped in front of him, holding her hands out beseechingly. "No, Erik, you don't have to do this." She laid her hand on his wrist. His gaze softened for an instant and she almost thought he believed her.

Then he pushed her aside and waded back into the water, shaking the noose free of the rope's coils. She blinked back tears, feeling all hope leave her. Her Angel was gone, buried deep in the abyss of his tortured soul. Words were useless.

He was barely two steps away from shore when Christine leapt on his back. Unprepared for her assault, Erik staggered and went down, plunging both of them under the lake's surface. Christine popped up almost immediately, the water not much more than hip deep on her. Pushing her dripping hair out of her face, she looked around for Erik. There was no sign of him.

Panicked, her gaze went to Raoul, still tied to the portcullis. "Where is he?" she cried.

"I don't know." He, too, stared at the now still surface of the water as if willing the Phantom to reappear.

"Erik!" she screamed, moving deeper into the lake and sweeping her hands back and forth under the water. "Erik!"

A few feet from where they originally went down her fingers closed around cloth. Frantically, Christine yanked upwards. Erik's head and shoulders broke the surface of the water, blood pouring from a gash in his forehead. He coughed and sputtered. Relief flooded Christine. He was alive! Grasping him under the arms, she towed him the few feet to shore and staggered out of the lake, dragging him with her.

He collapsed on his side on the stone floor, still hacking up brackish water. Christine knelt beside him, uncertain of how to help him. He looked up at her, his gaze unfocused then his eyes slid shut and he was still. "Angel?" She shook him. "Erik?" He didn't respond. Blood was still flowing from his injury, a small pool forming under his head.

Jumping to her feet, Christine ran to the work area of his home and snatched up the first bit of cloth she found. Kneeling at Erik's side once again, she carefully turned him on his back, her hand behind his head to hold it steady. She folded the cloth she'd found and pressed it to the cut on his brow, recognizing the length of silk as one of his cravats.

She held the makeshift compress in place with one hand and laid the other on his chest. His heartbeat thundered under her fingers as his chest rose and fell with his ragged breaths. She touched his face, bending low to whisper "Angel…" in his ear. "Erik, wake up," she said, slightly louder when he didn't respond.

"Christine--" She ignored Raoul as he called her name.

"Please, please wake up," she repeated to Erik, hearing an edge of hysteria creep into her voice. "I'm sorry, so sorry, Angel."

Tears stung her eyes and she let them fall, thinking it was just like her to realize how much she needed him only when she was closest to losing him. She was a stupid, idiotic child who hadn't been able to see beyond her petty fears to notice how deeply Erik loved her. She thought of all the careless things she had said, all the little hurts she had inflicted upon him over the years. In spite of the pain she had caused him, Erik had risked his life to be with her on that stage tonight, to sing to her, to touch her hand, to tell her he loved her. Oh, God, what had she done?

"Christine!"

Taking his limp hand in hers, Christine brought it to her lips and kissed his knuckles. "Can you ever forgive me, Angel?" she whispered.

"Christine!"

She finally glanced in Raoul's direction.

"Christine, leave that creature be and untie me so we can escape!" he cried.

A surge of irrational anger rushed through her veins. "Shut up! This is all your fault! You're the one who planned this! You're the one who wanted him dead!" she screamed. "You should be happy!"

Raoul shut up.

Christine leaned down and kissed her Angel's scarred cheek. "I love you," she breathed against his skin. "I should have told you before. Maybe...maybe if I had, we wouldn't be here now." She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. "We would be together, Erik, together somewhere warm. A beach! Yes, we would be walking on a beach, just the two of us, and you would have your hand in mine and I...I would be wearing your ring." She looked around on the ground for the ring he had given her before Raoul showed up. She had dropped it when she had tried to stop Erik from harming Raoul.

Spying it lying a few feet away, Christine got to her feet and retrieved it then knelt by Erik again. She slid the ring on the third finger of her left hand. She bent over him, her face inches from his, her tears falling on his cheeks. "Open your eyes, Erik. Look at me and see I'm yours. I choose you."

She held her breath, waiting for an answer to her prayers.

* * *

Heaven. He was in Heaven for never on earth had he experienced such bliss. Only an angel's lips could be as soft as the flesh that so gently touched his face. An angel's kiss, for that was what this sensation could only be. Even with his eyes closed he knew what he was feeling was that longed for, but never experienced, intimacy. In his most beautiful dreams, he had never imagined that an angel's lips would be so warm, so sweet upon his own. Needing to look upon this heavenly creature who had bestowed such a yearned for gift on him, Erik opened his eyes. 

The face leaning over him was soft, blurred, a nimbus of light crowning the angel's dark hair with a halo. "Erik," the angel said in a low voice. "Oh, Erik, I was so worried." He blinked in surprise at the angel's words, and as his vision cleared, he realized it was Christine and not an angel staring at him with concern in her eyes.

All other thoughts fled as his head chose that moment to explode. He cried out, his hand automatically flying to his brow. The sudden movement sent a wave of nausea through him and he rolled to his side and vomited.

Christine's hands were cool as they touched him, one at the back of his neck, the other gently cupping his forehead as he retched until his throat burned. When the episode finally passed, she helped him to his feet and to a nearby chair, careful not to jar him.

Once seated, Erik leaned his head in his hand, realizing for the first time that the two of them were soaking wet. "Christine...what--what happened?" he rasped.

She touched his cheek as she peered intently into his eyes. "I knocked you down in the water and you hit your head."

His fingers went to his forehead and touched the painful line of a cut over his right eye. "Why were we in the water?"

The light of relief in her eyes dimmed and she bit her lower lip. "You don't remember?"

Erik started to shake his head and instantly regretted it. "No, I--" Bits and pieces drifted back: singing in _Don Juan_ with Christine, pouring out his heart as she stripped the mask from his face, the screams, cutting the rope to the chandelier, dragging Christine through the cellars, thrusting the wedding gown at her and forcing her to put it on..._It's in your soul that the true distortion lies..._

He closed his eyes in shame for the second time that night. "I'm sorry, Christine, I'm sorry. I am a monster..." he choked out, grief and loss nearly overwhelming him.

He felt her hands so soft against his cheeks as she cradled his face. "No, no, you are an angel, my love. My Angel."

"Christine!" Another voice drowned out her quiet words. "Christine, you are bewitched! He's a devil, a monster. We must escape from here!"

Erik lifted his gaze to stare over the top of Christine's head at the Vicomte de Chagny still tied to the portcullis where Erik had left him. He remembered holding the punjab lasso in his hands, could feel the rough fibers of the rope against his skin. He had started toward the boy with it, envisioning it around the fool's neck, Erik tightening the noose until he choked and sputtered...

He thought he would be sick again. "Christine, take him and leave me," he croaked, struggling to rise.

"Erik, no," she pleaded. "I choose you. It's you I want--"

A sound reached his ears and he waved his hand for silence. Voices, many voices raised in anger. They were coming for him. They must not find Christine here!

Grasping her by the shoulders, he shook her, stemming the flood of tender words spilling from her lips. "They're coming, Christine! You must leave here at once with him!"

He pushed her in the direction of the lake then turned and stumbled up the stairs to the bedroom. He meant to sit on the bed to wait for the mob, but his legs gave out before then and he fell heavily, coming to land on the floor beside the huge black swan. His skull throbbed with pain but he pulled himself up into a sitting position, knocking the small table next to the bed with his shoulder as he did so. The monkey in Persian robes began to play, the tiny clash of the cymbals more than his aching head could stand. He would have smashed it with a sweep of his arm if he had had the strength. Instead he laid his cheek against the swan's cool wooden feathers and closed his eyes.

_Masquerade, paper faces on parade, hide your face so the world will never find you..._

Erik felt a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. His masquerade was coming to an end now, soon they would find him and take their revenge, and he could hardly blame them. He was a murderer, after all, though if someone asked him now, he was not sure he could explain why he had done the things he did. Madness perhaps, obsession, most assuredly. Out of love, though, he thought not. His love for Christine had been the only thing precious and pure about his miserable, wretched life, the one thing he could take pride in was he loved her, and he let her go. "Christine," he whispered, "oh, Christine..."

A hand touched his hair lightly. "I'm here, Angel."

He opened his eyes to see Christine kneeling beside him, a towel in her hand. "No, no, you must go! I don't want you to be here when they find me! I would not put you through that horror!"

She began to dry his hair gently. "Shh. It's all right. Raoul's gone to lead them away."

He blinked at that, his mouth hanging open for a moment before he could form words. "The boy? He will lead them straight to us, Christine!"

She shook her head, moving the towel down to dry his neck. Tugging his drenched shirttails out from the waist of his equally soaked pants, she peeled his shirt off his shoulders. Patting his chest with the piece of cotton, she said, "He won't, Erik. I made him swear, and he will not break an oath. He is going to tell everyone he saw us perish in a cave-in."

Erik turned that over in his mind, cursing the pain that made thinking so difficult. So many questions floated in his head, but he chose one that seemed most important at the moment. "I don't understand, Christine. Why didn't you go with him?"

Her eyes shone as she looked up at him, and there was a tender smile on her lips. "I chose you, Erik." She held up her left hand and wiggled her ring finger for him. He gasped involuntarily at the sight of the diamond ring he had placed carefully in her hand what seemed years ago.

"Christine, I--" Words failed him and tears burned his eyes.

She stroked his cheek gently, her gaze intent on his. "I love you," she said quietly, then she was leaning in towards him and her lips brushed lightly against his. She sat back, still watching him, her tongue flicking out to wet her lower lip.

His tears spilled over. "I love you, Christine," he breathed then her arms were around him. He buried his face in the soft curve of her neck. She smelled of algae and lake water and no perfume had ever had a sweeter scent.

"Everything will be all right," she whispered as she kissed the top of his head. "We're together now. Nothing else matters."

"Nothing else matters," he repeated, holding tight to her, and for the first time in his life, he felt peace.


	15. Harbor of the Heart Part 1

Back with another divergence, the second from the final lair scene.

**Harbor of The Heart**

**Part 1**

_"Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known? God give me courage to show you, you are not alone…."_

Christine waded slowly into the lake, her gaze locked with her Angel's stormy eyes, her heart pounding in her chest. Coming to a stop in front of him, she slid his ring onto her finger, never looking down. As she tilted her face up to his, she saw the rage vanish from his eyes to be replaced by not triumph but…fear? Laying her right hand on his chest over his heart, her left came up to caress his shoulder. "Angel…" she whispered then pressed her lips to his in a soul-baring kiss.

* * *

Christine Daaé clattered down the steps to the chapel as fast as her gangly legs would carry her. Tears blurred her vision and she bounced off the wall at the turn of the stairs. She ignored the pain that flared in her shoulder. It was nothing compared to the agony in her heart. 

Skidding to a stop in the middle of the small chapel, she sniffled loudly and swiped at her cheeks. She hastily lit the candle above the daguerreotype of her father, but she didn't kneel to pray. Instead, she took a loud, tremulous breath and wiped her nose on the back of her wrist.

"An—Angel?" she finally called out. "Are—are you here?" She looked around the room as if expecting the walls to answer her.

"Yes, _ma petite fleur_, I am here. What has upset you so?"

The warm, tender voice instantly eased a fraction of the girl's distress, and she closed her eyes, slowly spinning in place. "No one remembered what day it is today," she finally answered. "I know the premiere is tomorrow night, and everyone's busy but—but—no one remembered, not even Meg or Madame!" The last was wailed through a fresh set of tears as Christine flung herself on the floor next to the stained glass angel window. Resting her arms on the window seat, she buried her face in the crook of one elbow, sobs rocking her thin frame.

"Shh, shh, _mon ange_," said the voice soothingly. "I did not forget."

She lifted her head. "You didn't?"

"Happy Birthday, Christine."

A tremulous smile tugged at the corners of Christine's mouth, and she used a corner of her rehearsal skirt to wipe at her eyes. "You remembered," she said in a near whisper.

The voice wrapped around her like a velvet cape. "Of course I did. How could I forget such an important birthday? You are ten today, are you not?"

The girl nodded slowly, but strangely, her tears seemed to increase at his words instead of lessen.

"Why do you still cry?" the voice asked her, a touch of confusion evident in his tone. "I know today has not gone as you had hoped, but you are not forgotten, will never be forgotten."

Christine sniffled loudly and swiped futilely at her wet face. "I know, Angel. Thank you so much for remembering." She tilted her head down, ashamed of what she was about to confess. "I just wish you were real."

The voice made a startled stuttering noise then there was silence. "Angel?" Christine said, the word echoing in the empty room. "Angel, don't go! I didn't mean to offend you. I believe in you. I love you!" Only the quiet guttering of the candle flame answered her. "I just wish I could touch you," she whispered.

The silence stretched on for minutes, the only sound in the small room Christine's hitching breaths. Just as she was about to beg once more for forgiveness, her Angel's voice returned. "There might be a way." The Angel's words were soft and hesitant. "You must close your eyes, Christine. Close them and keep them shut tight no matter how tempted you are to open them! Only then can I appear in a physical form to you."

Christine thought about the Angel's strange request for a moment, and realized that perhaps it was not so extraordinary. Angels were heavenly beings not meant to be seen by the eyes of man or child. She nodded, getting to her feet and moving to the center of the room. "I won't open my eyes, I promise."

At her vow, a gust of air swirled through the chapel and the few candles flickered then went out. She was alone in the darkness, the only illumination a watery glow coming through the stained glass angel window. She shut her eyes, a shiver of anticipation going through her.

"Do not be afraid, _mon ange_," her Angel said, his voice coming from somewhere in front of her.

She swallowed. "I'm not." She lifted her chin up defiantly and heard him chuckle softly. Fabric rustled, and she felt the smooth, cool touch of gloved fingers against her cheek, the scent of well-worn leather tickling her nose. Tentatively, Christine reached up to grasp the arm connected to the hand cupping her face. The sleeve of his coat was of fine wool, not cheap, nubby cloth, and it confirmed in her mind that this was indeed an angel, not a grubby stagehand playing a trick on her.

Satisfied that her Angel was real, Christine took a step forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. He gasped at her impetuousness, but didn't seem offended by her actions. Pressing her face into the soft silk of his waistcoat, she let tears of joy slip from between her closed eyelids.

His fingers moved from her cheek to caress her hair, his other hand coming to rest lightly between her shoulder blades. He rubbed her back in long, soothing strokes, and Christine hugged him tighter, her heart soaring. For the first time since her father died, she felt like she was home.

* * *

Christine stepped back from the kiss, but didn't let go of him. She looked up at him intently, her gaze searching his face for some sign, some reaction from him. His green eyes were dark with an unrecognizable emotion, fixed not on her, but on an internal vision only he could see. _See me, Angel_, she silently pleaded. _See my love for you and remember what we are to one another._

She laid her hand along the right side of his face, her thumb stroking his crimson, twisted flesh as she touched her lips to his once more. _Feel me, Angel, and know love_...

* * *

Thanks to everyone who continues to read and review! 


	16. Harbor of the Heart Part 2

**I was inspired to finish this today. Enjoy! **

**Harbor of the Heart Part 2**

Torture, that was what this was, the most exquisite torture he had ever known. He looked down at the sleeping angel he held in his arms, her head leaning against his chest just over his heart, her fingers wrapped around his coat lapel. He rested his chin against the girl's hair, shivering at the tickle of her silken curls against his skin. Tears threatened for the hundredth time that night, and he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing in the components of her scent. Talc, and chalk, and rosin, all part of a dancer's daily regimen, even one as young as Christine, and something else, some indefinable whiff of flowers or spices that was uniquely her.

Oh, he was a fool, an utter fool for giving in to her plea and his own temptation, for now he knew it would be agony to let her go. A voice at the back of his mind whispered there was no reason he should have to let her go. It was quite clear to him that Christine was not happy as a ballet rat. Why should such a heavenly creature be forced to suffer the casually cruel torments of a world that did not deserve her, that forgot such important things as her birthday, that made her so unhappy that she turned to an unseen voice for comfort?

There was no reason at all why this had to continue. He could take her with him, down to his home, where he would share everything with her. Dancing was a waste of time for someone with her vocal talents. She could be the greatest diva the world had ever seen in ten or fifteen years. Hell, she could become anything with the right training. She had a bright, inquisitive mind that was stagnating under the grind of the simple rote learning that was all that was offered the dancers. Why would they need to know maths or languages or art? They were bodies to be used until injury or age or pregnancy made them obsolete.

He wrapped his arms more tightly around the girl. He would never allow that to happen, not to his Christine. He would spirit her away this very night, take her to his home where they would live happily together in a world of music and art and knowledge. Yes, he thought, it was a lovely dream, save for the fact that his home was a dank and dreary cave at the lowest level of the opera house, with only the bare necessities needed to sustain his life and his work. He had his organ and his books and his writings, and a coffin for the rare instances when he needed rest. He had never needed much in the way of material things, but even he knew that an angel could not flourish in such a place.

Letting out a sigh, he leaned his head back against the stained glass window of the chapel andchanged his position on the window seat. Pins and needles shot up his leg and he wiggled it carefully to restore circulation, not wanting to awaken Christine. Still, the idea was not completely without merit. He would simply have to make some changes to his home so that it would be welcoming to Christine. More light would be a start, and rugs to cover the bare stone floors. Furniture was needed as well, a bedroom suite for her and a parlor where they could sit and read together. Perhaps he would teach her to play the violin, her father's instrument. She would like that. He tilted his head down, pressing his left cheek to her hair.

Christine shifted in her sleep, her fingers letting go of his lapel as her hand moved to brush a strand of hair away from her face. In so doing, her fingertips bumped against his mask, his face so intimately close to hers. A bolt of sheer terror went through him, and he held his breath, every muscle trembling as he fought the urge to drop the child and flee.

But Christine did not stir further. She simply sighed and her hand came to rest on her chest. He exhaled an unsteady breath, the tears he'd held back slipping down his cheeks. What was he thinking, dreaming of such forbidden things? He was a demon and she was an angel! The first sight of his face and she would scream in horror and run from him, an event he knew his fragile heart could never bear. Better that she never know him, never look upon him, no matter how much it pained them both.

This had been a mistake, he now realized, a grievous error on his part to even consider giving in to her request to appear before her.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, Christine still in his arms. Gently, he laid her down in the window seat on her side, her arm curled under her head for a pillow. Exhausted from her long day, her tears, and the songs they had sung together before she fell asleep, she didn't stir.

He stared down at her, emotions warring inside him, his chest tight with both grief and joy. Getting down on one knee, he brushed her hair back from her forehead and dared to press his lips against her soft, warm skin. He closed his eyes, savoring that gentle touch, wanting to keep this one beautiful memory forever.

Finally, he stood and wiped away the tears running down his neck. "Thank you, Christine," he whispered, "thank you for making a monster feel like an angel, if only for a moment."

Turning his back on her, he melted away into the shadows.

* * *

He opened his eyes to findChristine looking at him, an expression of hope on her face. He blinked and ducked his head, feeling the tears coming and for some reason not wanting her to know that the touch of her lips to his had torn his soul in two.

A sob forced its way out of his lungs, and he staggered away from her, feeling her puzzled gaze on his back. _"Take him, forget me, forget all of this!"_ He waded toward shore, his legs feeling as if they were made of lead.

He turned toward her as he exited the water, finding her still standing where he had left her, confusion in her eyes. _"Leave me alone!" _he screamed, waving his arms like the madman he was. _"Forget all you've seen. Go now, don't let them find you! Take the boat, swear to me never to tell, the secret you know, of the Angel in Hell!"_

Stumbling up the stairs to the bedroom he had once dreamed would be Christine's, he looked back one more time. _"Go now! Go now and--!"_ But Christine was no longer in the middle of the lake; she was right beside him.

He fell to his knees, his world, his life, all he had ever known crumbling around him. A ragged sob shook him, and he reached out to her, to his Angel, his hands fisting in the damp folds of her skirt as he hid his face in the softness of the satin over her stomach.

A hand caressed his head, the other rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades. "It's all right, my Angel, it's all right," she soothed, her voice tender and calming. "I won't leave you, I promise. I love you."

He wrapped his arms around her waist hardly daring to dream this was real. But Christine was warm and solid under his cheek, and he could feel the beading on her bodice pressing uncomfortably into his skin. And with that sensation, he knew this was no dream.

He was where he had always longed to be. In her embrace, he was finally home.


	17. Pandora's Box

**Here is the last of the trio of final lair divergences. There will be one more part to this series to go then by July I hope to start posting a new story. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed!**

**Pandora's Box**

His lips were so soft against hers, so warm and gentle, as if she was a delicate flower and he was the sun. His marred cheek was hot under her palm and damp with sweat and tears, but it was real, a part of him no other hand had ever touched. Did he feel this most wonderful of miracles happening right here, right now, this simple kiss joining two hearts, two souls, together? She had to know.

Ending the kiss, she moved back just far enough to look into his eyes, her hands never leaving him, her fingers moving lightly against his shoulder and chest. Their gazes met, and for an instant, she saw the brilliant light of rapture shining in his emerald eyes. As quickly as it had appeared, it vanished, to be replaced by a look of agony and heart-rending sorrow. He trembled under her hands, his face twisting in pain as his mouth tried to form words but only managed a ragged sob.

He pushed away from her, stumbling like a mortally wounded man toward the shore. _"Take him, forget me, forget all of this…"_

Christine started after him but a strangled noise from Raoul stopped her. With a worried glance at her Angel, she turned and slogged through the lake toward her trussed up fiancé. Loosening the noose around his neck, she pulled it off over his head then untied the ropes holding him to the portcullis. As soon as he was free, Raoul wrapped her in a crushing hug. "Oh, thank God, thank God!" he murmured as Christine stood stiff and unyielding in his embrace.

Taking her by the arm, Raoul dragged her toward the boat. "Christine, come on. You heard him. We must leave here at once, before he changes his mind!"

She shook free of his grasp. "I'm not going with you." She started toward the shore. Her Angel had disappeared up the stairs and into the bed chamber.

"Christine? What do you mean you're 'not going with me'?"

Reaching the rocky water's edge, she looked back at him. "I made a promise, Raoul," she said, holding up her left hand so that he clearly saw her Angel's ring. "And I will not break another promise to him, not when I have broken so many."

Splashing to shore, he grasped her by the shoulders. "So you will break your promise to me instead? Or have you forgotten you promised to marry me, not that creature!"

Christine took a deep breath before she replied. She forced herself to look into Raoul's eyes, to see the confusion and hurt there, both of which were her doing. "I'm sorry for the pain I have caused you, but I was never free to make that promise to you."

His expression grew more tortured and he shook her. "I can give you everything, Christine! How can you choose that monster over me? How can you even stand to look at him, let alone—"

She tore herself free from his grasp before he could complete that damning sentence. "Is that what you think of me? That I am so vapid and shallow that the only things I find attractive are wealth and a handsome face?"

"No, I—"

"He noticed me when I was a scrawny, sniveling child, and he loved me then! You—you did not even remember your childhood playmate until there was a limelight on her and she was coiffed and painted within an inch of her life!"

"Christine, I love you!"

She shook her head sadly, her brief outburst fading to resignation. Raoul would never understand. "You say you love me, but you don't know what that means. You could have anyone you wanted, anyone in the world. He has only me."

"Pity? You would stay with him out of pity? Don't you deserve to be happy, Christine?"

She let out a long sigh. "I was happy—before you reappeared in my life."

Anger flashed in his eyes. "So this is my fault?"

Christine shook her head, beginning to feel arguing with him was pointless. "No, I take all the blame on myself." She blinked back tears at the memory of all the ways she had hurt her Angel in her confusion. "I couldn't see how truly wonderful my life was until all I knew and loved was taken from me. I didn't appreciate what I had until it was lost. I won't lose him.

"He risked everything for me. All those years of fear and loneliness, until he found the courage to speak to me, to be my friend, my teacher. I am the only one to ever look at him as a man, to treat him with compassion, and he let me go! That is what love is, Raoul. And that is why I will not leave him!"

He had the decency to look ashamed. "This is goodbye, then?" he asked finally.

She nodded. "You are a good man. I'm sorry I've hurt you."

He took her hands and pleaded with her. "Please, Christine, please don't do this. There is a mob coming and if they find you with him, they will show no mercy."

She held her head high as she took her hands back. "They won't find us. Now go, before they find you!"

Reluctantly, he got into the gondola and took up the pole. Christine released the lever controlling the portcullis, raising it. She waited until he was through then lowered it again before hurrying up the steps to the Phantom's bed chamber.

She could hear the gentle chiming of the music box, the melancholy sound joined by her Angel's voice. _"Masquerade, paper faces on parade, hide your face so the world will never find you..."_ She caught sight of him as she silently entered the room; he knelt on the floor next to the bed, his gaze on the monkey as its music played. The tears she had been holding back spilled down her cheeks at the fragility of his song.

He looked up then as she paused in the doorway. She felt a flush rising to her cheeks under his questioning eyes and a most peculiar fluttering in her belly. She looked down at the ring on her finger, its presence calming her nerves. She raised her gaze back to his face.

_"Christine, I love you..."_ he whispered, his voice breaking.

She took a step toward him and his face lit up. There was a glimmer of hope in his eyes and her heart wrenched at the sight. His life had been filled with nothing but torment and suffering from the moment he was born, and yet he could still believe in love. He still had hope. And that, Christine thought, made him beautiful.

Moving to his side, she knelt on stone floor next to him. She traced his features with her fingertips, her gaze never leaving his. "Angel, I love you..."

Tears slid down his cheeks and he reached out a shaking hand to touch her face, startling when his fingers came in contact with her skin. "I...I thought I was dreaming..."

Shaking her head, Christine smiled at him through her tears. "No, my love, I am here, now and for always, if you will have me."

She opened her arms to him, and tentatively he moved into her embrace, his own arms wrapping around her as if she was made of smoke and would disappear if he held her too tightly. He pressed his face against her shoulder, silent sobs shaking him. She longed to hold him this way forever, to show him the physical comfort he had been denied all his life, but she could hear shouts and splashing in the distance.

"Angel, we have to leave here," she told him. He lifted his head, his attention obviously on the approaching mob. She wiped the remnants of his tears from his cheeks with the back of her fingers.

Taking a deep breath, he shook himself, and the formidable mantle of the Phantom's power seemed to flow over him. Getting to his feet, he extended his hand down to Christine. "Come, we must hide for now. When they've gone, we will return and salvage what we can then we shall leave this cursed place forever."

Smiling, Christine rose and kissed his lips softly. He stared at her in surprise then shyly smiled back at her. She thought his smile was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Taking his hand, she followed her Angel, trusting him with her life, as he had trusted her with his heart.


	18. Strong Enough Part 1

**Here is the first part of the final "divergence". This one will be a long one, three, perhaps 4 parts. If you haven't reviewed before, please do so now here at the end and let me know what you thought of my stories. Thanks! Oops! Almost forgot! I've started posting my new POTO fic, "Stronger". If you haven't already, check it out and tell me how you liked it. **

**

* * *

Strong Enough ****Part 1**

Strong Enough 

So many chances...so many missed opportunities...Christine stared at her reflection in the mirror, anger and disappointment marring her image's perfectly made-up countenance. "This is all your fault," she whispered at the face looking back at her. "You couldn't be strong for one moment, could you? You couldn't be brave for yourself or for him."

Tears welled up in her eyes and she closed them, leaning her head in her hands. In the weeks following that last night at the opera house, she had come to view her relationship with her Angel with a painful clarity. What had been so difficult to grasp then seemed so utterly simple now. She had been the only one with the power to change the events that had happened. So many moments in which she could have diverted what was to come by simply being honest with herself and with him. If she had only had the courage to tell him the truth, to tell Raoul the truth, that she loved her Angel and not her childhood friend.

She had been afraid then, but not now. Now Christine knew that his violence and his anger had come from his own fear, the fear that his music, his heart and his soul would not be enough for her, that she could not love him because of his ruin of a face.

"Oh, Erik," she breathed, finally letting the tears fall. "I was everything you were frightened of." The look in his eyes as she had left him haunted her dreams and her waking hours. She could still hear his desperate plea for her to stay. _"Christine, I love you..."_

He was the greatest man she had ever known, and she had broken him without a word as she had walked away from him. She had never imagined leaving him would break her as well. The never-ending ache in her heart had begun the moment she had looked back at him, standing alone on the shore of his self-made prison, the ring, that stupid token that she had somehow imagined could bring him comfort, clutched tightly in his fist.

She had awoken the morning after the fire knowing her cowardice for what it was, and she had resolved to find her Angel and to make things right between them.

Unfortunately for Christine, Raoul's need to protect her from the Phantom became paranoia. Guards patrolled the grounds of his estate and bars had been installed over the windows. A guard sat outside her room at night and a maid sat within while Christine slept. In the three weeks since the fire, she had never been alone for more than a moment or two.

But that had changed today. For the first time since that night she felt she could breathe, as she was alone in the bride's room at the Eglise Saint-Gervais-Saint-Protais. The hairdresser had just left and she had asked not to be disturbed until it was time for her to dress for the ceremony.

Pushing back from the vanity, Christine got to her feet, wiping at her damp cheeks. Taking off her engagement ring, she set it down on the vanity on top of the note she had written to Raoul. Calmly she removed the pins the hairdresser had inserted to hold her veil in place and set the piece of lace down on the dressing table. Slipping off the robe she wore over her corset and bloomers, she opened the carpetbag she had brought with her from the estate. Ostensibly, it was to have held her trousseau for her wedding night, but in reality she had packed only a simple, well-worn gown, a cape, and sturdy boots, along with a leather pouch holding her meager life's savings.

Dressing quickly, Christine walked over to the single window in the room and opened it. She paused, one leg over the sill as she heard voices in the hallway, but no one knocked at the door. Stepping fully out of the window onto the ledge a few feet below, she pushed the glass closed and began her precarious trek along the ledge. When they had visited the church a week ago, Raoul had been pleased that the bride's dressing room was on an upper floor of the church, with no nearby trees or convenient trellises for anyone wishing to steal Christine away to climb.

She, however, had silently noted that if one walked the narrow ledge around to the east side of the church it was only a three-foot leap to the roof of the building next door. There was always the danger of falling, but she was to the point where death or injury was preferable to her gilded prison.

Cautiously, she rounded the corner and spotted her objective. It would not be an easy task, as she would have to run along the ledge to gather up speed, then jump at an angle onto the roof. Saying a silent prayer and gathering up her skirts, she took five rapid steps and launched herself into the air. Her leap was graceful, but her landing was not. Her feet slid on the tiles and she tumbled to the rooftop, knocking the wind out of her lungs. She lay there, stunned, for several minutes, gazing up at the sun shining in the clear blue sky.

When her heart slowed down enough that it no longer felt as though it was going to burst from her chest, Christine got slowly to her feet. She stood on top of a three-story building that was part of a line of shops stretching down the block, all of them attached to one another. It was a simple task to step from where she was to the next roof. In this manner, Christine made her way across Paris.

Quite some time had passed when Christine finally descended to the street and hailed a cab. From there it was only a matter of minutes before she reached the opera house. Alighting from the carriage, she paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk staring up at the remains of the only home she had known for nearly ten years.

The once magnificent structure was a ruin, the brick soot-stained, boards nailed tightly over the broken windows and doors. She walked around the building, trying all the entrances and even the grates covering the ventilation shafts to no avail. Coming once again to the front of the theater, she sat down on the steps and rested her chin on her drawn up knees. Somehow she had just assumed she would be able to gain entrance, and that he would still be there. It was a silly notion, she realized now. She was supposed to have moved on; how idiotic of her not to imagine him doing the same.

She wiped angrily at the tears she felt rolling down her dust-streaked face. Even if she didn't find him, she would not go crawling back to Raoul. Erik had given her the gift of her voice, and she knew because of his belief in her that she had the skills to find a position somewhere else. Her birth country of Sweden, perhaps, or maybe Italy, home of the greatest opera houses in the world. Not finding Erik this instant was a minor setback. She would just have to try harder to find him, that was all.

And she would start with Madame Giry. Getting to her feet, she flagged her second cab of the day, and gave him the address Meg had told her the last time Christine had seen her, two days after the fire.

It was mid-afternoon when she arrived at the apartment block that held the Giry's new home. Dashing up the steps, she knocked on the door, crossing her fingers and praying that someone would be home. She heard the sound of footsteps approaching then the door was opened.

Madame Giry was revealed as the door swung inwards, still as tall and prim as ever, her hair wrapped around her head in its customary braid. "Christine! Mon Dieu, child! What are you doing here? Isn't this your wedding day?"

"I'm not getting married, Madame," she answered confidently. "I do not love Raoul, and I would not wish an unhappy marriage on either of us."

A strange expression crossed Madame's face then but she quickly gave Christine a smile and gestured for her to enter. "Come in, come in. It seems like it has been so long since I've seen you, yet it has been barely a month. Sit down, dear. Can I get you something to drink?"

Christine sat down on the edge of a well-worn settee. "No, thank you. There's something I need to ask you."

The older woman had been headed out of the room, presumably toward the kitchen, but turned back at Christine's words. "What is it?"

"I need to find Erik. Do you know where he is? I tried the opera house, but it was all boarded up, and I could not find a way inside."

Madame Giry's smile faded, and her gaze seemed to become pitying. "Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. Have you not seen the paper today?"

Christine felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of her stomach, as if all the joy had been scraped out of her at those words. "No," she answered, her voice a hoarse whisper, "no, Raoul has done a very fine job of keeping the outside world away from me."

Madame crossed the room to a small desk and returned with a folded copy of L'Epoque. She held it out to Christine, who took it with trembling hands. At first she didn't understand. There on the page was the announcement of her wedding to Raoul, the one that would never take place. Her gaze traveled down the columns until it reached the obituaries.

For the second time in her life, Christine felt her world shattering as she read those three words.

**Erik is dead**.

The newspaper dropped from nerveless fingers and Christine left the Giry's apartment without a word, stumbling down the stairs in a daze, every step echoing those vicious words in her head. Erik is dead. **Erik is dead**. She broke into a run as she reached the street, sobs choking her as tears blurred her vision.

She didn't know how long she ran or in which direction she was going, but somehow she was not surprised to find herself outside the gates to the cemetery. Leaning against the iron fence, she closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath. Thoughts of her Angel flooded her, and she forced her mind into blankness, seeing nothing but the darkness behind her eyelids, the only sound the rushing of her blood roaring in her ears.

When she opened her eyes again, she was calm, numb, thinking of nothing but putting one foot in front of the other as she made her way to her father's tomb. Memories of the last time she had visited his grave rose up, but she pushed them ruthlessly back, turning her attention to the first signs of spring around her, the buds on the trees, the green leaves of tulips peeking through the damp earth.

It wasn't until Christine reached her father's mausoleum, climbed the stairs and tugged open the gates that she let herself truly feel her loss. Dropping to her knees, she howled her despair. Sobs rocked her body until she no longer had the strength to stay upright. She collapsed to the cold marble floor of the crypt, lost and broken.

"Father, forgive me," she whispered. "You sent me the Angel of Music and my fear drove me from him. Now he is gone forever." She pressed her clenched fists against her eyes in an effort to stem her tears.

He couldn't be dead, not her strong, capable Angel. Her stomach clenched at the thought of what he must have gone through after she left him. In a lifetime of pain and fear he had only dared to reach out once for love, and she had rejected him. He must have felt as she did when her father died, that there was nothing to make life worth living. He had destroyed his world, she had abandoned him, and not even music could comfort him any longer. She knew she would never sing again, and she imagined he would have felt the same at her loss. Death must have seemed preferable to a life of solitude and misery.

She curled into a ball, her arms wrapping around her stomach, trying to ease the sickness she felt at the knowledge that her Angel must have ended his own life. "Please, God, please, he didn't deserve to suffer for my sins...please, he belongs in Heaven..."

Christine lay there for she knew not how long, endless tears creating a small pool on the smooth floor. "Why did you choose me, Erik? Why couldn't you have loved someone less foolish, someone who could see you for the Angel you were from the very beginning, who could love you the way you deserved to be loved? I'm sorry, Angel, I'm so sorry."

Finally, Christine fell into an exhausted sleep, from which she hoped never to awake.

* * *

When Christine opened her eyes again, the inside of the mausoleum was dark, though through the gate she could see the pink tinted sky, the setting sun casting long shadows across the headstones. She lay there on the stone floor of the tomb, her muscles aching from the uncomfortable position and too much crying, but strangely enough she wasn't cold, though she should be. 

She shifted her arm and realized it was covered by a blanket--no, a cape. Joy and fear collided inside her and she closed her eyes, wanting just for a moment to believe this was real, that her Angel was alive, was here with her. She stroked her fingers over the soft cloth, bringing a handful of it to her nose and inhaling deeply. The mixed aromas of smoke, wool and the spicy musk she knew was Erik's own scent filled her senses.

Please, God, she prayed, please...Christine opened her eyes again and sat up slowly. "Angel?" she whispered.

The scrape of a leather sole against stone came from the darkest corner of the mausoleum. Getting to her feet, still clutching the cape to her chest, she peered into the blackness. "Show yourself, Erik, please."

There was a softly exhaled sigh, and a tall form oozed from the shadows to loom over her.

* * *

To Be Continued 


	19. Strong Enough Part 2

**This site has been a PITA the past two days. I wanted to upload this yesterday, but for some reason the editor on here is not working correctly. So excuse any typos, as I couldn't properly proof on here. There is more to come after this part, never fear! If you've enjoyed this story, check out my fic "Stronger", if you haven't already. **

**Strong Enough Part 2**

Erik crouched in the corner of the empty choir loft, peering down at the lavishly decorated church slowly filling with ostentatiously dressed wedding guests. The groom stood at the head of the aisle, pacing back and forth. He snorted softly. What did that fool have to be nervous about? Christine was marrying the boy, after all.

A woman dressed in a bright purple gown came up the aisle, a worried expression on her face. By her fair hair, he guessed she was one of the De Chagny sisters. She approached Comte Phillipe, the best man, and whispered in his ear. His complexion turned a brilliant crimson. Erik couldn't hear his words at this distance, but he could clearly read his unflattering comments about Christine on his lips. Erik's hands clenched into fists.

The Comte approached Raoul, and once again there was a whispered exchange. The color drained from the Vicomte's countenance then he strode swiftly up the aisle and out of the sanctuary.

Something was obviously wrong, but what? Erik had come here only for one last glimpse of his angel before he left France forever. "Christine…" he breathed then opening the narrow window behind him, he slipped out onto the church's roof.

He leapt from the sanctuary's roof to that of the wing holding the bride's room. Quietly he laid down at the roof's edge and peered over. Through the slightly open window of the bride's room, he saw Raoul enter, glance frantically around at the empty space, then cross to the window. Erik barely moved back in time to keep from being discovered.

"He's taken her, I know it!" the Vicomte exclaimed.

Another voice, most likely the Comte, said, "You told me yourself that his obituary was in today's paper. Besides, there is no way up to this window from the outside, and we had guards on the stairs and outside the door."

"I know! But he's like a ghost. I halfway believe he can move through walls like those ballet rats said. If he has her, he would take her back to the opera house, I'm sure of it." The voice grew softer as Raoul moved away from the window.

Erik risked looking into the glass again. Both men had their backs to him, huddled around the dressing table. Phillipe handed Raoul a sheet of paper. Raoul read it then crumpled the note in a tight fist before tossing it aside. He strode out of the room, Phillipe behind him.

Erik waited until he saw the two men get into a carriage at the front of the church and drive off then he easily slipped over the edge of the roof and onto the ledge below the open window. He was about to climb inside when he noticed what the Vicomte had not--footprints in the soot on the ledge. They were the size of a woman's foot, and traveled along the ledge and around the corner of the building.

A smile crossed his face. Christine had out-witted her Vicomte. Priceless! He started to follow the footprints, but remembered the paper the boy had thrown to the floor. Going through the window, Erik retrieved it. Unfolding it, he read the words written in a neat hand. _"I'm sorry, Raoul, but I cannot marry you." _It was signed "Christine".

So she had truly left that spoiled boy. Hope surged painfully in Erik's chest for a brief moment before reality's claws rent it in two. Just because she left Raoul didn't mean she loved him.

Erik looked around, taking in the pale gold bridal dress hanging on the door of the wardrobe. It was a hideous monstrosity, with a neckline that would have come to Christine's chin and a huge bell skirt dripping with lace and beading. He chuckled under his breath. "Wise decision, Christine. You would have looked like a great golden egg walking down the aisle in that. It's reason enough to run away." A flicker of rage ignited in his chest as he realized they had not allowed Christine to wear white, that the De Chagnys considered her tainted, most likely by her relationship, such as it was, with him.

He crossed to the dressing table and ran his fingers over the veil he could see had been hastily unpinned and dropped. In his mind's eye he saw her again, a different veil resting on her curls before she had dropped it to the ground and pulled the cover from the mirror, forcing him to face his own hideousness. He made himself look up from the tabletop to the image in the vanity's mirror.

He wore neither mask nor wig now; there was no point to it any more. Several days' worth of stubble covered his chin, his skin was smeared with grime and his clothes were sweat-stained and wrinkled from having been slept in. He was the elegant Angel of Music no longer, just a dirty, ugly man who had no business being in a house of worship, let alone hoping for a second chance with a woman he would never deserve. And yet she had left the boy…His attention turned from the depressing reflection to the items on the dressing table.

A ring lay underneath a scattering of hairpins. Erik picked it up, turning it over under his gaze. The boy had replaced his first bauble with one even more gaudy. He started to return it to the table, but stuck it in his pocket instead, along with Christine's note. If the Vicomte chose to leave something of such value lying around, then he deserved to lose it.

Returning to the window, Erik stepped once more onto the ledge and followed the footprints around the corner of the church. There the gap between the marks widened; clearly she had taken several running strides before…what? The prints stopped halfway down the length of the building. Erik glanced down at the narrow alley below. It was empty.

His gaze traveled up the side of the building next to the church, a slow smile crossing his lips. "Brava, Christine," he said quietly, "brava." Two quick steps and a leap, and Erik was on top of the other building. A disturbance in the dirt covering the roof showed Christine's landing point.

Turning slowly in a circle, Erik looked out at Paris in all directions. He knew how Christine had escaped. The question now was where had she gone?

* * *

He had found her at the cemetery, huddled in a ball on the floor in front of her father's crypt, asleep. Unable to bring himself to wake her, Erik covered her with his cape and stood watch over her from the shadows. It wasn't long before Christine stirred and noticed that things had changed while she slept. 

She crushed the fabric of his cape in her hands, bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply, her expression changing to one of peaceful bliss. The thought that she knew his scent, that it was pleasurable to her, made his knees weak. When she called "Angel?", he was nearly undone.

Her gaze searched the corners of the mausoleum for him, and he instinctively drew back. He had thought of nothing but this moment for weeks, but in his mind it had been him watching her marry the Vicomte from afar, allowing him one last glimpse of her heavenly beauty before she was gone from his life forever.

Christine rose slowly to her feet, clutching his cloak in her arms. "Show yourself, Erik, please."

He took another step back and found himself trapped in a corner. His mouth was dry, yet he could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and his heart thudded like a tympani in his chest. He recalled the strange joy he had felt standing in the bride's room at the church, knowing that she had willingly left the boy. Forbidden images had swirled through his mind, of Christine searching for him, of her eager touch, her happy kisses when she found him. Confronted with her now, all he felt was gut wrenching terror. She had broken his heart when she left him the first time. If she didn't want him now, he would be destroyed. He was trapped, no escape save through the mausoleum's gates.

Erik moved into the light, toward the opening at the entrance to the tomb.

"Angel!" Christine cried out, dashing toward him. He reacted on instinct, taking a step back from her, his hand clenching round one of the iron bars of the gate. His flinch stopped her in her tracks and the hurt look that crossed her face shattered the bits of his heart into tiny slivers.

Tears glistened in her eyes as she pressed a hand to her mouth. "You're alive," she finally whispered moving parallel to him until she stood next to the gate as well. He kept his eyes turned to the sight of the sun setting over the cemetery, though he felt her gaze roaming over him, taking in his unmasked visage, his disheveled and unkempt appearance.

"Why did you lie? Why did you put that notice in the paper? Was it to hurt me as I know I have injured you?" Her voice was quiet and thick with tears, and he was suddenly ashamed of what he had done, though he had thought it was the right thing at the time.

Swallowing the bile he could taste at the back of his throat, Erik said, "It was my wedding gift to you. With my death you would be free. No looking over your shoulder at every shadow, no nightmares of the monster coming for you in the middle of the night. I wanted you to be happy, for you to forget me."

He heard her sharp intake of breath, but still he did not look at her, feeling what was left of his heart grinding into sand at her silence.

"Oh, Angel," she finally breathed, "oh, my poor, poor Erik. How could I ever forget the man who holds my heart and soul in his hands?" She reached out her hand toward him, but did not touch him. She only wrapped her fingers around the same cold iron bar he clutched, her hand slightly above his own. She took a hesitant step forward to stand at his side, close enough he could smell her floral perfume, could feel the warmth of her breath against his distorted cheek. He closed his eyes, knowing that if he looked upon her he would be lost.

"Return to your precious Vicomte, Christine," he finally hissed between clenched teeth. "Go live the life you were meant to live."

Her hand slipped down the bar to cover his, her touch warm and gentle. He leaned his forehead against the gate, trying to hold back his tears. "Go! Go now and leave me!"

"No," she said quietly and firmly. "This is the life I was meant for. Do you believe in God, Erik?"

Exhaling a ragged breath, he answered, "You know I don't."

She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "I do. He has a plan for each of us, though we may never see our lives as such. Everything that has happened to us has been a test to make sure I was strong enough to love you."

He snorted softly, but didn't keep her from speaking.

"He sent you to me when I needed an angel. How else do you explain your interest in me at that age? Most young men would have found the idea of entertaining a grief-stricken child utterly boring." It was true he had never before or since had any interest in the ballet rats.

"Please, Erik, if you do not believe me, trust in Him. How else can you explain all that's happened? I am here because it is where I am meant to be. I am meant to be the one to love you. I know that now. All of this, the violence, the fire, Raoul, they were all a test of my strength, of my love for you. He knows the life we create together will not be an easy one, so He tempted me with one that was. With Raoul, I would never want for any physical need, but I would never love or be loved as I would with you. Please, Angel, let me love you as you deserve to be loved. Let me give you all that you've ever wanted. Let me hold you in my arms and never let you go."

Opening his eyes, he kept his gaze fixed on the deepening purple of the now twilight sky, watching as lights were lit in the homes of Paris, manmade stars twinkling as though heaven now dwelled on the ground. It was an illusion, just as her words of love were an illusion. She was blind, blind as he had once been, dreaming of a world that could never be.

He let out a long, sad sigh. "I've nothing left to give you, Christine. My heart, withered and blackened thing that it was, has crumbled to dust."

She didn't say anything, simply reached up her hand and touched his face, her fingers stroking with care each reddened bump and crevice, caressing those places that had never known any touch save his own. Her lips followed in the path of her fingers, each kiss as soft as a rose petal. Tears rolled down his cheeks, hot and stinging, and she kissed those, too. Her arms slid around him in a firm embrace, as she kissed the shell of his ear, whispering the words he had gone his whole life without hearing. "I love you, Erik."

* * *


	20. Strong Enough Part 3

**Strong Enough Part 3**

Christine pressed her lips gently to the skin just below his ear then tilted her head so she could see his face. Erik's eyes were closed tightly, almost in pain. He swayed on his feet and she felt him trembling in her arms. Afraid he was going to fall, she quickly dropped the cape she still held on the ground. "Come," she said, "let's sit before we collapse."

Erik slid down the wall behind him to rest on the floor, his legs splayed. Christine knelt between his knees, cradling his face in her hands. He finally looked at her then, his gaze a mixture of emotions, hope and love fought with fear for dominance. He held her eyes for a moment only and looked away. It had been enough, though, for Christine to see what he had been through these past weeks.

He had been dying; the same as she had before she had made up her mind to return to him. That goal had given her something to work for, a reason to be. She had begun to eat again, to take care of herself, to force herself to face the daily unpleasantness that was the de Chagnys knowing that there would be an end to the hell she had created. For Erik there had been only the prospect of never-ending darkness and the knowledge that if the one who knew him better than any other could not love him then no one could.

Lifting his chin, Christine kissed his mouth softly. His lips were almost too warm, and rough against hers, but a thrill went through her as he responded to her touch, his hands fisting in her hair as he returned the kiss. Breathless, they broke apart, Erik staring at her as if noticing her for the first time.

"You love me?" he finally asked, his voice halting and soft.

She nodded, feeling her eyes fill with tears. "I love you. I should never have left you. I should never have put you through the pain I did."

He swallowed and tried to turn his face away from her, but she still held him captive in her hands. "I don't deserve your love," he finally growled. "Though you have left the boy, it still doesn't change what I am--a monster not fit to look upon you, let alone touch you."

Christine let out a growl of her own and was pleased when his surprised gaze returned to her. "Stop it. I will not have anyone speak of my future husband that way."

His eyes grew wide and his mouth opened and shut several times before he stammered, "Your husband?"

She smiled at him, letting go of his face to run her hands through his hair then clasp them behind his neck. "My husband. I think far too highly of you to dishonor you by making you my lover." He made an inarticulate sound then wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close as he hid his face in the curve of her shoulder.

"Oh, Christine…" he moaned, and he shuddered in her arms, sobbing quietly against her neck. She held him tightly, one hand on his head, the other around his shoulders. Leaning her cheek against his hair, she closed her eyes. Finally, after so many years of feeling alone in a crowd, of an aching emptiness she had always thought had been her father's loss, Christine knew what she had been missing for so long. It was the love of her Angel, her Erik. She embraced his love as she embraced him, and felt complete...except she couldn't feel her feet.

"Erik, I need to move," she said quietly. He looked up at her, his eyes tired but joyful. "My legs are asleep." He blinked, nodded, and let go of her enough that she could change positions. She sat down on the floor between his knees, wiggling her toes as she leaned against his chest. Hesitantly, Erik encircled her with his arms, breathing a little sigh as she rested her head on his shoulder.

They stayed that way until the last of the sun's rays faded beyond the horizon and the pale, cool light of the full moon limned the wings of the stone angels as they kept watch over the dead.

"Where do we go from here?" Christine finally asked, lifting her head from his shoulder. "Back to the opera house?"

He shook his head sadly. "I haven't lived there in weeks, not since--that night."

She reached up and touched his cheek. Closing his eyes, Erik pressed his face into her palm. His heavy beard stubble itched against her hand, and she rubbed at a bit of dirt on his chin with her thumb. What had he been through in the weeks that they had been apart? "Where have you been living then?"

Blinking, he gazed at her, his eyes bleary. "The catacombs." At her horrified expression, he hastily said, "It's not so bad, almost like my home on the lake. Not quite as comfortable, but safer than the streets."

Christine didn't know whether to be horrified that he had been living among the bones of the dead, or angry that he had taken so little care of himself. She settled for hugging him tightly. "How in the world did you ever find me here? Even I didn't know I was going to end up here when I found out you were dead."

Erik tangled his fingers in her hair. "I went to the church. I wanted to see you one last time before I left. I wasn't going to interrupt the ceremony, just watch from the choir loft." He looked away from her, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "I wanted to know I did the right thing in letting you go." His gaze found hers again, his expression confused. "But you're here now, and not with--was I wrong? Should I have kept you with me that night?"

Christine pondered his question. It was the same one she had been asking herself for weeks. "I think we both needed for you to free me," she answered softly. "In that moment, you discovered what kind of man you truly are, as did I. You are not the black-hearted monster the world wants to paint you, but a good man, an honorable man, who would give up what he wanted most in the world out of love." Tears stung her eyes and she tried to blink them back but failed. "I knew in that moment that you truly were my angel. I should never have left you. I don't know how I could have."

Erik straightened from his slumped position against the wall, embracing her. "It doesn't matter now." He wiped away her tears with the side of his finger. "We are together, and I have no intention of ever letting you go." He tilted her face up, bending down to touch his lips to hers gently. He pulled back a bit to look at her, and she could see fire in his eyes. He kissed her again, his mouth moving from hers to the side of her throat as she leaned her head back.

Christine closed her eyes, Erik's touch sending a forbidden thrill through her. She shivered as his hand cupped her breast. She felt the same heat she had the night of _Don Juan Triumphant_ when he had sung to her of seduction, had run his hands over her nearly naked body, each touch leaving an inferno in its wake. Oh, how she wanted the flames of love to consume them, but not on the cold marble floor of her father's mausoleum.

"Erik," she murmured, and he lifted his head from nibbling at her collarbone to press his mouth to hers. His tongue swept across the seam of her lips and she opened to him, tasting him for the first time. The raw intimacy of their tongues sliding together sent a flood of pleasure through her. An aching need rose within her, centered at the join of her thighs. She gasped into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him back enough so she could breathe. "Erik," she tried again and this time his gaze focused on her. "I want this, I do, but not here."

She stroked his face with both hands. "I want our first time to last for hours; I want to touch and kiss every part of you, to love you as you deserve to be loved, not to just quickly couple in this most inappropriate of settings."

He swallowed, nodding in agreement.

Kissing his cheek, Christine rose to her feet and he followed her, picking up his cape and fastening it over his shoulders. When he looked at her again, his gaze was intense. Grasping her by the waist, he crushed her body to his and she clutched at his shoulders to keep her balance. His hips moved against hers. She couldn't stop the moan that escaped her lips as the hard evidence of his desire for her pressed against her belly. He kissed her roughly, almost painfully, then stepped back from her, his breathing ragged, his eyes glowing eerily in the silvery moonlight.

"Do you still want me, Christine?" he rasped, "Now that you have felt my wicked desire for you? Would you truly join with this greedy creature who would ravage you and claim you as his own?"

It pained her to see the shadow of doubt in his eyes, to know that he still feared she would change her mind and abandon him once again. Christine wrapped one arm around Erik's neck, standing on tiptoe to brush her lips over his. Her other hand slid down his stomach and came to rest on what he had deemed his "wicked desire". His mouth opened in a silent cry, but he controlled himself, keeping his hands at his sides as she touched him. "I love all of you, Erik. You are _my_ love, _my_ Angel, and no one else's," she whispered forcefully.

He kissed her tenderly then, his desperate need draining away at the reassurance of her love. "Will you marry me, Christine, now, tonight?"

She nodded eagerly. "Yes. There is a chapel on the other side of the cemetery. It's early evening yet. Perhaps the priest is still there."

His face lit up with delight at her words and for the first time Christine saw him truly happy. The emotion transformed him, the sorrow and pain lifting from his face, his body. He stood taller, his eyes sparkling with joy and he picked her up, raising her so high off the ground that she let out a squeal and clasped her arms around his neck. He twirled them around then finally set her back on her feet before opening the mausoleum's gates.

Taking her hand, Erik led her out into the night, walking nearly backwards through the gravestones unable to take his eyes off of her. She laughed in delight at his eagerness and hooked her arm through his, tugging him close to her side. Something he had said earlier came to her and she asked him a question. "You said you were at the church to see me before you left. Where were you going?"

Her words seemed to sober him slightly, and Erik slowed his rapid pace to look down at her. "Anywhere but here. I was going to just pick a direction and keep going until I could go no further."

Christine hugged his arm. "Now you will not have to travel alone."

The grin reappeared on his face. "I suppose not. Where would you like to go?"

Before she could answer, a shout echoed to them through the tombstones. "Christine!" A second voice joined the first. "Christine, where are you?"

Christine and Erik gazed at each other in horror. "Raoul," she whispered, "he's found us…."

Erik's grip tightened on her hand. "Run!"


End file.
